


The stars look into my eyes tonight

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst and Humor, Backstory, Bad Parenting, Biting, Choking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, F/M, Families of Choice, Fingering, First Time, Frottage, Gore, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Telepathy, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 03:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12449190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "I know you watch me sleep."This over breakfast, in her sitting room.Constance hasn't asked for much from him, and he's given her everything he could think of, including 'practical dresses', 'practical shoes', 'practical tutors' to teach her what she needs to know, and 'practical toys'.The entirely impractical clothes she'd had to wear to be presented to Louis are a crime he hasn't been forgiven for, yet, he doesn't think.Still — "It's a father's prerogative to check on his little ones.""There's just one of me, I'm not little, and you're only my father so no one looks at you weird for bringing home a fourteen-year-old urchin."Predictably, Treville's heart burgeons with paternal feelings.Other things burgeon, too.





	1. Dial it back a little, Batman.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts), [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Some vague mentions of things which happened in an AU-ized pre-series. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: So I'd planned for most of this year to spend the Christmas season writing Treville/Constance snippets, but my writer-brain decided I would damned well start early. With a story. That's okay, the snippets will come in their own time. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and gratitude to Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Liz, Greyandgold, and, of course, my Jack, for all their support, care, incoherent noises, and encouragement. I needed it.

Treville's line was dead, not too long ago. 

Most people with a mind expected it to remain so, given Treville's intense failure to develop anything like true politesse — at a bare minimum — for the rest of his nominal class. He does his job, and that's about it. 

He's good at his job — very good, to be frank — and that's both why he's still here and why he's had to do certain things to avoid assassination attempts over the years. 

There've been fewer of those of late. 

He's not at all sure if that will change, now that his line isn't dead. 

Constance. 

Her name is Constance, and Louis has made her his. 

Even when she sleeps — like now — she has a rather baleful glare on her face — 

Though that could have something to do with the fact that he's watching her. 

It's not the first time he's watched her. 

It won't be the last. 

~ 

_"Hey! Hey, you! Stop hurting that boy!"_

_The man — a fruit-vendor, by the look of things, though Treville had been moving through a crowd with his escort, and hadn't had the best vantage-point — hadn't paid one lick of attention to the girl —_

_"I *said* stop *hurting* him!"_

_And then everything was happening too fast._

_A crack of splintering wood —_

_An angry man's pained and shocked shout —_

_The crack of flesh on flesh —_

_A girl's cry —_

_And *then* Treville had been close enough to see — the girl, whoever she was, had picked up an old piece of wood and cracked the vendor across his knee. Too old — the wood had splintered instead of taking him down._

_Still, the vendor was hopping on one foot after backhanding the girl, who was glaring up at him —_

_The boy the vendor was abusing was crawling back to his terrified mother —_

_And Treville could punch the vendor out, *then* get the crowd under control._

_The vendor would spend a few days under the Musketeers' tender mercies._

_The girl..._

_Well, he'd just see about that._

~

"I know you watch me sleep." 

This over breakfast, in her sitting room. 

Constance hasn't asked for much from him, and he's given her everything he could think of, including 'practical dresses', 'practical shoes', 'practical tutors' to teach her what she needs to know, and 'practical toys'. 

The entirely impractical clothes she'd had to wear to be presented to Louis are a crime he hasn't been forgiven for, yet, he doesn't think. 

Still — "It's a father's prerogative to check on his little ones." 

"There's just one of me, I'm not little, and you're only my father so no one looks at you weird for bringing home a fourteen-year-old urchin." 

Predictably, Treville's heart burgeons with paternal feelings. 

Other things burgeon, too. 

He toasts Constance with his teacup from across the table, and decides to be just as honest as she is. It's usually the best choice. "You make me feel more fatherly than I ever have —" 

She makes a face — "I make your *cock* hard." 

"The two aren't mutually exclusive, daughter." 

She looks at him. 

She looks at him *thoughtfully*. 

She stands, lifting her plate — then setting it down again for the maids. "I'm going to get an early start on my studies." 

"As you will." 

She gives him another long look, cautious but not wary. 

He loves her. 

She goes. 

~

_"Are you going to hang me?"_

_Treville coughs and sits down behind his desk. The girl is grimy, but not especially undernourished. She either hasn't been on her own long, knows how to take care of herself, or some combination of both._

_The girl has more fire in her eyes than half of his recruits._

_The girl's hands are balled into — perfect — fists, just as if she plans to leap across Treville's desk and beat the hell out of *him*._

_The girl — "Well? *Answer* me!"_

_Treville sighs happily. "My name is Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the King's Musketeers, and I'd like to make you a proposition."_

_She sneers at him. "I'm *no* man's whore!"_

_"No? All right. Though watch that attitude. Whores are a soldier's best friend, in the darkest times of his life. But that wasn't what I was going to ask you to do."_

_The girl blinks —_

_Blinks several times —_

_Treville waits her out —_

_"Then... what?"_

_"A regiment is a mobile *town*, Mademoiselle. It doesn't *survive* — much less thrive — without people in many different positions with many different skills and abilities. Not all of those people are men, or boys. And *all* of those people are in constant need of strong, open-minded, smart apprentices." And Treville raises his eyebrows._

_"You... want to hire me?"_

_"What skills do you have?"_

_"I'm — I can cook, and I can sew..." The girl frowns direfully. "You're not going to punish me?"_

_"I don't *like* people who abuse children. I — what's your name?"_

_She lifts her chin. "Constance. People who hurt children deserve to be beaten themselves!"_

_"How would you like to learn how to *do* that effectively, Constance?"_

_And there is, there *is* a part of him which is shouting for that, which is insisting that he can't just —_

_"Of course I would!"_

_"There's a catch," Treville says, and he's smiling like an arsehole instead of anything more cautious, he's not being anything like *right*, he's —_

_And the girl — *Constance* — is scowling at him — "*What* catch?"_

_"You wouldn't work *here*."_

_"*Where* would I work? Your *bed*?"_

_"How have you *survived* with that mouth —" And then Treville laughs, just laughs, just —_

_"What? Why are you *laughing*?"_

_"Because, Constance, that's the exact same question my best friend — my *first* friend — asked me the day we *met*," Treville says, and remembers Kitos, wonderful Kitos —_

_"Before he punched you?"_

_"He preferred smacking me upside the head. He had hands like dinner plates — it got his point across."_

_"I."_

_"As of now, Constance? My line is dead. I'm an arsehole and a known buggerer — though people conveniently forget the women who have been in my life — and everyone, including myself, assumed that my line would *stay* dead. But it doesn't have to." And he looks at her._

_She looks back._

_He folds his hands on the desk._

_She crosses her arms under her — small — breasts. "And when I want to marry?"_

_"A son to carry my name. The nobility will rejoice," he says, and smiles. "Like hell, they will, but... you take my point?"_

_She narrows her eyes and nods. "You — actually like me."_

_"Immensely."_

_"I'll think about it," she says, and walks out._

~

A day of leave, and he's reveling for more than one reason. 

Both of the tutors he's gotten for Constance for the weapons-work are ex-soldiers, and so know what they're *doing*, but they're bloody well not *him*. 

And that's not good enough. 

He gets a little time with her at this when he gets home before sundown, but that's rare enough. 

*Too* damned rare. 

For her, too, by the speed with which she's demolishing her breakfast. 

Treville's no more seemly. 

Pithou has done an excellent job with her footwork and conditioning, but the flexibility of her upper body — and thus the actual *use* of the practice swords...

"It's no bloody good unless *you're* doing it, Treville!"

"What the hell is stopping Pithou from — here, no, roll your shoulders back... a little more —" 

"Ooh!" 

Treville grins. "You felt *that*." 

"Yes!" And she begins working the forms in much better order, and — 

"Hm." 

"What? What's wrong? Am I still —" 

"No, you're perfect. I've just figured out what's wrong with Pithou." 

She blinks — but doesn't stop working. "What *is* it?" 

"He has daughters your age. *Twins*." 

"So?" 

"Your tits stick out when you're doing that." 

She harrumphs and moves to *brandish* the practice sword at him — 

"Did you think that was an insult?" 

"I —" 

"A complaint?" 

"You —" 

"Disrespect...?" 

She narrows her eyes. 

He sighs happily. "Be as belligerent as you like, daughter. Be belligerent all the bloody time. But don't do it in ways that will get you killed until after we've all taught you how to *protect* yourself." 

She inhales sharply, eyes blazing — 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

And Constance goes back to her forms, clearly smoothing her feathers *that* way. 

"I'll be explaining to Pithou that you're *my* daughter, not his, and that if he can't keep his mind on business, then he'll have to pick up extra money working for someone else." 

Constance pauses, just for a moment. 

"Yes...?" 

She smiles, small and bright, and gets back to work. 

~ 

_It's been a week since the girl — *Constance*, and she didn't even give a *last* name — had walked out of his office —_

_Since he'd *let* her walk out of his office —_

_Since he'd *stupidly* —_

_He's brooding in his study._

_It's fall, not winter._

_It's not *that* cold out there._

_It's —_

_He's drinking._

_He's put off dinner *twice* —_

_Absolutely all of his staff wants his head on a platter for how he's been behaving for *days*, but —_

_"Sir."_

_Shit — "Alaire. What is it? I've asked to be left to my own —"_

_"Pardon the interruption, but there is a young girl in the foyer who rather insists that you want to speak to her."_

_"I."_

_Alaire raises an eyebrow._

_Treville beams —_

_Alaire raises that eyebrow *higher*, making all of his scar-tissue twitch._

_"We'll have dinner in — in —"_

_"The *dining* room, sir?"_

_The sitting rooms might spook her, damn — "Yes. That. I — and have the —"_

_"I will have the maids prepare to draw her a hot bath."_

_"Yes, thank you —"_

_"We have already prepared the suite next to yours for a long-term... visitor. Steps will be taken to prepare it more permanently than that."_

_Treville nearly trips standing up, but recovers. "You... well... good, then. Good."_

_Alaire nods._

_"I... dismissed? Dismissed."_

_Alaire leaves —_

_Treville counts to ten *slowly* —_

_Treville makes it to eight and then takes a *brisk* walk to the dining room. He's still there well before Constance, and it takes every bit of training he's ever — barely — sat still for to stand behind his chair and wait._

_Finally, though, she's there. Scrubbed at the hands and face and neck —_

_Wearing a dress that had to have been saved somewhere special for a long time — it's too small by a long road —_

_The boots looks comfortable, though._

_Practical girl._

_Treville smiles helplessly._

_"The boots are the most beat-up part of this whole —"_

_"But you'll be able to run, and stand, and *fight* in them — if you have to."_

_She looks at him hungrily._

_"Why don't you let me get you something else to wear? I don't have anything good enough for a daughter, yet, but you could borrow something that fits you better from one of the servants —"_

_"I'm not going to inconvenience your poor staff!" And she gives him an *affronted* look, hot in her wide, brown eyes._

_"I just want you to be comfortable, Constance — and I always make sure my staff has plenty of clothes and other things."_

_A suspicious look._

_"Maybe you'll think about it?"_

_"People say you're not as wealthy as other nobles. Not as... powerful."_

_Treville grins. "I'm definitely not. I'm an arsehole, and I'm an *honest* arsehole. I'm also a soldier more than any other thing. *None* of those things will get you raised too high in this particular court."_

_"Are you reckless?"_

_"Sometimes —"_

_"With your money?"_

_He blinks. "I... tend to leave the day-to-day running of the household in the hands of my Master of Accounts."_

_"Alaire," she says, and nods in satisfaction. "*He* doesn't let you fuck about."_

_Treville coughs. "No, he doesn't —"_

_"He doesn't think it's weird that you're bringing me home?"_

_"He would've preferred more warning," Treville says honestly, and smiles ruefully._

_She frowns at him. "You shouldn't make your servants read your bloody *mind*, Treville!"_

_"You're absolutely right —"_

_"Don't *yes* me!"_

_Treville beams. "You remind me of my late wife."_

_"Did you pick her up off the street, too?"_

_"No, but she also liked to beat the hell out of people who hurt people who didn't deserve it —"_

_"Good!"_

_"And she didn't let me get away with a damned thing."_

_"Better!"_

_"*Agreed*."_

_"What happened to her? Did she get sick?"_

_And that... "She was murdered," Treville says, and swallows, gripping the back of his chair. "I. It's hard to talk about."_

_"Oh," Constance says, and blinks at him. "I'm sorry —"_

_"No, don't —"_

_"I'm *sorry* for your *loss*," she says, and *glares* at him._

_Treville coughs — "I — thank you? Thank you —"_

_She nods. "I won't — I won't ask too many questions about her."_

_"You can — I don't mean to cut off an avenue of discussion. I *want* you to get to know me."_

_She looks at him for a long moment —_

_Several long moments —_

_"My parents are dead," she says, at last._

_"I'm sorry for —"_

_"My Da was an arsehole. And not in any kind of good way, which makes me wonder about you."_

_Treville opens his mouth —_

_Closes it and growls. "Did he hurt you?"_

_"Not with his fists. Not most of the time, once I got big enough to swing the pans at his head."_

_"*Good* girl —"_

_"He had a nasty mouth, and my Mum was always trying to make him be *nicer*."_

_Treville winces. "I'm sorry —"_

_"Tell me — tell me something about your wife," she says, and pulls her shawl up around her shoulders._

_Treville nods. "Her name was Amina, and she was a witch. I'm a witch, too."_

_"*What* —"_

_"I'm also a shifter," Treville says, and shifts his muzzle —_

_"Bloody — fucking — Treville!"_

_"She was, too. Our son would've grown into one. He *would* grow into one if I —"_

_"You said your line was dead!"_

_"Amina disappeared not long after our son was born — *with* our son. Over time, my brothers and allies and I pieced together that she was running from the earth-magic-immune assassin set on her by the patron my Amina-love had before *we* were lovers. Our boy's blood-father."_

_"Um."_

_"The son of the then-Marquis de Belgard was being threatened with disinheritance, Constance. He was ordered to make his 'affair' disappear — even though Amina wanted no part of him. I — and my brothers in the Musketeers, who also loved her — were out of the country when he struck. Amina fought off the assassin with her good, dirty blade — always keep your blades dirty, Constance — and gave the man a blood-sickness. Then she ran."_

_"What *happened*? What did *you* do?"_

_"We later found out that she was terrified that the assassin would go after her guardians to get to her — older women who were all earth-mages. So she went to a *death*-mage that they didn't know — that *none* of us knew — for help. For a bloody *chance*," Treville says, and *snarls*._

_He hasn't said any of this in — years._

_He hasn't —_

_He shouldn't be putting all of this on *Constance* —_

_Not now —_

_Not —_

_"Oh — but tell me! What happened? Where *is* your son?"_

_Treville growls and stares at her —_

_She rears back —_

_No — "I won't hurt you —"_

_"Your eyes..."_

_"They're... gleaming, I imagine."_

_"*Yes*!"_

_Treville nods and gives himself a *hard* shake. And then he stares down at the table. Just the table. "The death-mage — Guillou — used a shade to confuse her. To *scramble* her. He forced her to bargain her life and past away in return for anonymity. 'Safety'. She couldn't tell anyone at all who she had been, or who she had known, or where she had lived... *nothing*. Not even her own — *our* own — son."_

_"Oh, no!"_

_"The closest we ever got to her after that was the Court of Miracles. Even when I tried to track them in dog-form, the scent-trails would only take me so far before... dissipating. *Disappearing*. There was nothing for me to sink my teeth into. Nothing for me to *find*. Until she was dead, and her body was... right there._

_"Right there in a tenement I had passed a thousand times if I'd passed it *once*." He snarls again. "Our son's drawings were on the *wall*!" And he looks up into Constance's eyes —_

_He stares helplessly —_

_And she stares back, eyes wide and full._

_She steps closer —_

_She reaches out —_

_He takes her hand and doesn't squeeze, doesn't *grip*. "There were clues on her body. Magical clues. We found Guillou's mark that way, and, eventually, I made an ally who could help me track him down that way._

_"That's how I learned the rest — and murdered the last person responsible for my Amina-love's death. I'd already murdered the rest."_

_"Oh —"_

_"And that's how I found our son."_

_"Where —" She growls and shakes her head. "Where *is* he?"_

_Treville smiles. "He's a Musketeer. He lives a few miles away from here. He..." Treville sighs. "He's strong, healthy, smart, beautiful, bold, wise, loving, kind, and he looks just like his mother. *Laughs* just like her, too —"_

_"Why isn't he *here*?"_

_Treville stares at her — he knows the look in his eyes is naked and raw. "Once I ended Guillou, and I knew it was safe to find my son, I *summoned* him to me. When he got to me at the garrison, I... he broke two decades of dark enchantment. And he didn't realize he had done it. He didn't feel my power when I touched him with it. He didn't know he had any connection to me whatsoever. He spoke — freely and openly and eloquently — about making a life and a name for himself as a Musketeer. About living a life of honour and glory for King and country. About making me proud to take him *on*," Treville says, and swallows._

_"I'm waiting for the part of this story that explains why he doesn't *live with you*," Constance says, and crosses her arms over her chest, making her dress strain._

_Treville smiles ruefully. "He wanted a Captain, not a desperate old deviant of a father."_

_"Did you *ask* him that?"_

_Treville stares at Constance._

_Constance glares back._

_Treville licks his lips —_

_Constance pulls out her own chair and sits down. "I'm hungry."_

_"Right you are," he says, and puts the rest... away. Just... away._


	2. The driver's heard Treville talking shit about carriages for years.

Treville loathes carriages with every fibre of his being. 

Except. 

"*Faugh*! Why can't we bloody *walk*?" 

Treville grins — and nearly bites his tongue when the Paris streets are entirely themselves — 

"You *deserved* that!"

"Yes, I did —" 

"And answer my question!" 

"Well, daughter, you're going to hate the answer." 

"Augh — it's a *propriety* thing. *Again*." 

"That's right." 

"Teach me how to ride!" 

"You said no to the riding dresses —" 

"Is *that* what those — those *indecent* designs were for?" 

And that...

"What? I know that look. What are you *thinking*?" 

Treville licks his lips. "Daughter..." 

"*What*?" 

"What's the difference, for you, between living decently and living *properly*." 

She growls at him.

Treville gleams at her happily — 

"Living *decently* is the right thing to do." 

"Yes?" 

"Living *properly* is *usually* *stupid*." 

Treville nods thoughtfully. "No argument on the latter —" 

"You *shouldn't* give me an argument on the former!" 

"But I will, because I'm not much *good* at being decent, daughter —" 

She harrumphs and crosses her arms under her breasts — 

The driver tries to bounce them off the ceiling of the carriage — 

Treville steadies Constance as best as he can while trying to keep all of his teeth in his head —

"This is bloody horrible!"

"So you *will* let me buy you a riding dress or five?" 

She growls violently —

Treville sighs happily. "Daughter, I promise they're considered entirely decent for young women of rank." 

She harrumphs. 

"I... promise that I won't have more than a *few* deviant thoughts about you in them?" 

She pauses. Visibly. 

"Yes?" 

"Was that true?" 

"Absolutely, daughter. I've always preferred my lovers naked or in leathers." 

"Even the *women*?" 

"I have had that fantasy *incessantly*." 

"You're *filthy*!" 

"I'd like to improve your measure for that —" 

She pointedly moves as far away from him as she can get. 

Treville coughs into his fist. "But I recognize that now is not the time, daughter. I'm —" 

"I'll take the dresses." 

Treville grins. "Yes?" 

She nods once. "*Six* of them. Will Pithou be able to teach me riding?" 

"He will, Dauvet will when he's not teaching you how to shoot and fight hand-to-hand, *Alaire* will —" 

"Oh, Alaire has so much other work to do!" 

"Alaire *glared* at me when I told him you'd refused the riding dresses, daughter. Like I'd *personally* failed him." 

"You had!"

Treville *chokes* — 

"You hadn't explained anything *to* me," Constance says, and glares at him *viciously*. 

Treville licks his lips — 

Constance narrows her eyes — 

The driver tries to rearrange all the bones in their bodies — 

"Bloody *hell*!" 

Treville sets his beautiful daughter to rights on the seat next to him. 

She harrumphs. 

And Treville looks forward to the happiest day he's had at the garrison since his brothers were alive.


	3. Let's hear it for the friendly horses!

"You spend your whole day in this *box*?" 

It's been an hour. "I did say —" 

"You didn't say it was so *small*." 

"I —" 

Constance throws her sewing down on the desk and stands. "I'm going for a walk." 

"You can't do that." 

She narrows her eyes. 

He coughs and stands. "Forgive me, I said that wrong."

She raises an eyebrow. 

He steps around the desk and offers his arm. "You can't go walking *alone*, dear daughter."

She stares at his arm like it's a snake covered in spiders covered in rancid duck fat. 

Treville licks his lips and tries to find a way to explain how the two of them have to look and act without using the words 'propriety' or 'you're nobility now'. 

She growls and *shoves* her arm through his. 

Treville fights the urge to smile and reaches for the doorknob — 

"I can *see* you smiling." 

"Fuck —" 

She harrumphs. 

Treville takes her out into the day. 

He introduces her to the quartermasters — she approves of their grim seriousness. 

He introduces her to the stablemasters — she asks intelligent questions about how to recognize the temperament of a given horse, and this leads to being introduced to a few of the horses, so she can see the descriptions in action.

When she wants to meet a truly calm and sedate horse, though, the best choice is to introduce her to his own Lisle, much to his chagrin. 

He sends Cerf off so he can speak to Constance alone while she pets and spoils his hopelessly placid horse. 

"Are you going to tell me why you're embarrassed by this beautiful girl?" 

"I —" 

"This beautiful girl who clearly loves you and respects you and is *happy* to see you?" 

"I..." Treville strokes Lisle's nose — 

She lips his fingers and tries to move closer, even though she's at the front of her stall —

And Constance is glaring at him. 

Treville rubs at his moustache, mussing it a bit. 

Constance glares harder. 

"I... miss riding more spirited horses." 

"Meaner horses?" 

"Well —" 

"Vicious, stamp-y horses that try to bite your bloody *face* off?" 

"You should watch your language while we're —" 

"You should be nicer to this wonderful *horse*!"

Lisle snorts and steps back a little. 

"Oh..." Constance reaches out — 

Treville tugs her back. "Easy with that while you're around horses. We tend to keep our mounts lively and spirited, because that makes a better mount for soldiers going into battle, but..." 

"They... spook more easily?" 

"That's just right, daughter." 

Constance gives an apologetic look to Lisle. "Sorry, Lisle..." She licks her lips. "You're a *wonderful* horse." 

"Yes, you are," Treville says, and pulls out some of the dried apples he'd snagged from the office to lure Lisle back to them.

She whickers and comes, and when Treville's absolutely positive she's calm, he lets Constance feed her, too. 

She smiles like a child. 

Like — 

*Not* like a child who has had a happy life, but like one who knows precisely how bad things can get, and knows to appreciate the good times when they come. 

He doesn't stroke her face. 

They stay in the stables for quite some time, and, when she declares herself ready to inspect the men, he doesn't hesitate. 

Porthos is on a mission with his brothers.


	4. Your actions — and lack of actions — have consequences, Treville.

At dinner, that night, she eats quickly, and then looks at him. 

Pointedly. 

Not unblinkingly — she's human — but... 

It's not a friendly look. 

And Treville knows *precisely* what it's about. He sighs and sets his fork down, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. "Yes, I knew my son wouldn't be there when I invited you —" 

"What's his name." 

Treville winces. "Porthos du Vallon." 

"Don't you mean Porthos du Vallon de Tréville?" 

"Amina and I were never married in the eyes of the Church —" 

She picks up her knife — holds it *almost* perfectly — 

"I — you're right that that means about as much to me as a pile of two-day-old shite. Turn your wrist a little —" 

"I —" 

"Just a little counterclockwise —" 

"Oh. Like this?" 

"Mm, yes, and get your thumb... just slide it — there you are. That will keep your grip secure for a slash." 

"*Really*? I've lost so many — I mean — don't distract me!" 

Treville smiles. "We can talk about Porthos, daughter." 

"Yes, we *can* —" 

"But let me teach you a little first, mm?" 

She narrows her beautiful eyes. 

Her soft mouth is pinched — 

She likes, when she has her druthers, to wear her hair half-up and half-down. She pulls the front up into a tight bun that dares all and sundry to touch and squeeze — and meet her wrath. 

The back is worn down, and flows in loose, touchable curls that Treville nonetheless does not touch. He isn't suicidal. He —

"What are you *thinking*?" 

Treville grins. "How much I like the way you wear your hair." 

"I —" She blushes and looks flustered. 

"Teaching?" 

"Yes!" 

He nods and stands, picking up his own knife and taking it in hand. She'd insisted on eating in the dining room tonight — more proof that he's in the shit — so there's plenty of light, but he still moves closer. 

And gets into a fighter's stance. "Note how my feet are placed in a way to give my body as much stability as possible, and to give my hypothetical attacker as *little* of my body as possible." 

"Yes! Just like fencing, only... wait, let me try!" She mimics his position immediately, but...

He frowns — 

"No, this doesn't... I think my feet have to be placed differently?" 

"And possibly you should crouch a little bit more... oh, yes, those wide hips of yours were —" 

"Hey!" 

"They're wonderful hips —" 

"They're not that bloody wide!" 

Treville licks his lips and raises an eyebrow. "Can we agree that they're wider than a fourteen-year-old *boy's* would be?" 

She bares her teeth — 

He growls — 

She blinks — and gets back into position. "They're still not that wide." 

"That they aren't, daughter. Now try striking out — no, not lunges, not yet... yes, defense positions are positions of strength. I see you already knew that," Treville says and grins — 

She grins savagely and strikes out again and again — 

"That's right, make the bastard pay for every step of ground gained. Make him *bleed* for it —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Now. You've lured your attacker close —" 

She snarls and uses the silverware to gut her phantom attacker. *Vividly*. 

Treville sighs happily. 

"Yes?" 

"Still too much motion away from your strength-position — we'll work on that — but where'd you learn how to gut a man?" 

She looks down. "I saw it done." 

Oh, sweet girl...

He moves close and takes her dinner knife, setting both of them down on the table before cupping her shoulders. "It stuck in your mind... and then you had to use it to protect yourself." 

"Yes." 

He strokes her shoulders. "You can tell me about it..." 

Her cheeks are *crimson*. "He said he needed someone to take care of his baby while he and his wife worked. He said — he said I could stay with them while I saved money." 

"Oh, daughter..." 

"He shoved me into the first dark alley we passed and — and he bloody *laughed* at me. Called me a stupid dirty fool of a whore and he said I deserved what I *got*." 

Treville snarls and squeezes her shoulders hard — too hard, she winces — 

Looks up — 

He eases his *grip* — "I apologize —" 

"No — no. *He's* dead. He was a big talker, and the alley was *very* narrow and dark, and he followed me into the shadows without paying attention to what I was doing with my *hands* —" 

"Oh, good *girl* —" 

"It took forever to wash the blood out of my clothes, and my hair..." She growls and glares at him. "I couldn't trust any man offering me a job!"

Treville growls low. "I'd like. To comfort you." 

"You sound like you want to tear someone apart!" 

"That, too." 

Constance snorts — and snickers, perhaps a little hysterically. 

She hasn't had the chance to talk about this. 

She hasn't had chances for — anything. 

Treville tugs her — tugs, not pulls — into his arms — 

"Oh — *Treville*!" 

"You don't have to accept this from me —" 

"No, I bloody don't!" 

"— but I'd like you to. I'd like to take care of you in every possible way." 

"You would." 

"Yes." 

Her breath hitches once, twice —

*Several* times — 

"I don't know... I don't know how to *do* that." 

"Oh, daughter —"

She *shoves* him back and wipes angrily at her own tears — 

"Daughter —" 

"*Tell* me about your *son*." 

Treville grunts — and nods. He can see... at least several of the ways he's fucked up here. He raises his hands. "Let's go... to the study." 

"Don't *stall* — but. The staff has to clean up after us." She frowns at him the way she always does when she feels he's being a lazy sod — but she nods. 

Treville nods back and leads them out. He doesn't touch her. 

"You don't even have any — any *portraits* of Amina —" 

"She never had the patience to sit for one," Treville says, and smiles wryly. 

"Oh." 

"But I *do* have a portrait of her, actually — I worked with an artist and shared my memories with him. I — no, that's a euphemism." 

"It *is*?" 

"Yes, daughter," Treville says, and leads them through the halls. "I shared *blood* with him so I could *put* my memories in his *mind*. The artist was a mage." 

"Ohh..." 

"If nothing else, you should punch me in the face for keeping that *portrait* from Porthos. It's a perfect likeness of my Amina-love. Of his mother." 

Constance is silent beside him for long moments. 

Long enough to get them *into* the study, where someone — let's call him Alaire — has left watered wine for both of them. Treville pours — 

Adds more water to Constance's, as per her preferences — 

She takes it and sits in the chair *facing* Treville's battered old throne. 

His Dad's battered old throne.

Constance raises an eyebrow. 

Treville smiles ruefully and sits right down. "I'm listening, Constance. To *everything* you have to say." 

"I... you... you *know* you shouldn't be hiding this from your son. From *Porthos*." 

"I —" 

"You *do*, Treville! I can hear it in your *voice*!" 

Treville winces and turns toward the fire — 

Grits his teeth — 

Growls — 

"*Treville*." 

"You can hear it." 

"*Yes*, and —" 

"You can hear it, and you're wondering what's taking me so bloody long —" 

"And."

And that... 

Constance is looking down again — 

Flushed red and smelling angry and hurt and ashamed and — Treville whuffs out a breath — 

Constance gasps and looks up — 

"Daughter, what's wrong? What is it?" 

She firms her beautiful mouth into a hard line — and gives him a pleading look. 

That — no. 

Treville sets his wine down and stands, moving to Constance's chair and kneeling in front of it. "Daughter, what is it? I know *some* of how I've fucked up, but not all of it. Please help me fix it. I can't have you this upset. Not when I can *fix* it." 

She frowns at him *sadly* — 

Treville croons — 

"Oh — I don't — I don't know if you *can* fix it, Treville!" 

"Let's find out for certain, mm?" 

She searches him for long moments — 

He leaves himself open for it — 

Her expression seems to almost *crumple* — 

He reaches for her — 

She *blocks* him — 

"Daughter, *please* —" 

"What — what's going to bloody *happen* —" She growls again. 

"What's going to happen *when*?" 

Constance gestures between the two of them, and seemingly at the whole of the house. "Where does all this go if you can only be *my* father when Porthos is away on *missions*?" 

Treville's jaw drops. 

"Did you not bloody think of that?" 

"I..." 

She growls to cover a sob and shoves him *back* so she can *stand*, and that — 

"Daughter, *wait* —" 

"Bloody no!" 

"*Please*." 

"No!" But she's still in the doorway. 

Treville stays right down on his knees. "It's true that I chose today to bring you to the garrison in part because Porthos wouldn't be there, but —" 

"I *know* —" 

"But *not* because you're a replacement, or a stand-in for him while I get my *act* together, or — anything *like* that. I *adopted* you. You're my *daughter*. You're Constance de *Treville*, now —" 

"Are you about to pretend that — that anything on a sheet of parchment, or anything other *nobility* says *matters* to you?" 

Treville inhales sharply — 

Constance gives him a *wounded* look — 

"You matter to me. You — ah, fuck, daughter, don't you think I'd bloody murder someone if it meant that Porthos would wear my name? Would live in my home *with* us?" 

"With —" She frowns again. "You can *have* that!" 

"Maybe. Maybe I can — if he'll have me. But that won't make *you* matter any less, daughter. My —" Treville growls and stands — 

And Constance *shudders* — but doesn't move. 

She doesn't move. 

Not even when Treville moves close. 

Not even when Treville cups her shoulders again. "My daughter. My girl. I knew you were perfect for me when you were still glaring at me in my office. I knew I *needed* you —" 

"You wanted to *fuck* me!" 

"I did, and I still do — but here's something you're not considering." 

"Bloody *what*?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I'm attracted to Porthos, too. *Deeply* — no." 

"What — *what*?" 

"I'm in love with him, like I'm in love with you —" 

She *yanks* herself out of his hands and *stares* at him — 

He sighs and drops his hands. "My wife — my Amina-love — we thought of each other as brother and sister before — and after — we became lovers. *All* of my true lovers have been my brothers and sisters, Constance." 

"T-Treville!" 

"The very first person I fell in love with? Was my father —" 

She *grunts* — 

"He was a beautiful man, kind and warm, giant and loving, brilliant and giving and open-minded and so..." Treville shivers. "He was a wonderful man who surrounded himself with wonderful people, and he taught me much —" 

"Including *incest*?" 

"No, that I learned on my own, daughter," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "He never did *anything* inappropriate with me, and neither did his lieutenants, who handled the lion's share of my education." 

A suspicious look — 

"You're in good company, though. My Amina-love — *and* the rest of my brothers, my *pack* — all asked the question at least once. Marie-Angelique — my brother Laurent's wife, and my *other* sister — merely asked for clarification. Would you like —" 

"No!" 

"All right —" 

"Not... yet," Constance says, and frowns, looking away. 

It's hard to take. "Daughter...?" 

She shivers. "This... this is family for you," she says, without looking at him. 

And that... "I've been... treating you a little cavalierly," Treville says, and takes another — careful — step closer. 

She looks up at him, and her eyes are narrow, and she's *blushing* — "What do you mean?" 

He smiles ruefully. "I mean that I've been treating you as if you already know me. As if... as if none of this — none of *me* — needs any time or explanations." 

She frowns hard — and then blinks. "You've been treating me like... like I was already... your family." 

"Yes." 

"Because —" She frowns harder. "Tell me why." 

There's an urge to challenge her, to make her admit that she *knows* why — but. 

It's not the time for that.

He takes another step closer, instead, and says, "You are my family. You always will be." 

"I — I don't love you!" 

Treville swallows hard — and nods. 

"Oh — I didn't mean that to *hurt* you —"

"You meant that — you wanted to point out how little time we've had together?" 

"Yes! And — and — you haven't told me everything! And I haven't told *you* everything!" 

"I'll tell you everything you want to know, and there's nothing about you that I *don't* want to know —" 

Constance makes a low, hurt noise — 

Her scents change — sweeten and deepen with hunger even as they grow jagged with *fear*. 

She steps *back* — 

And Treville raises his hands and stays right where he is. 

"I think. I think I have to go... to my rooms now." 

"Constance —" 

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she says, and sounds bitterly angry with herself — 

"Don't — don't shame yourself. I know I've said a dozen too-shocking things if I've said one —" 

She laughs harshly — and sobs. 

He reaches for her — 

"I *can't*!" 

"Oh — daughter...." 

"I'm sorry, I'm —" 

"Don't *apologize*. You have *nothing* to apologize for —" 

"I know you want to make me feel *better*." 

"Do you?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Or do you know that the old deviant wants to *touch* you?" 

Constance flinches and growls and starts to slip into a *fighting* stance — and then flushes and stands straight, turning away. 

And Treville nods. "I apologize for that. But I *can't* let you go just to have you beat on yourself. Leave me alone. Leave me alone all the *time*. But don't *hurt* yourself, daughter. Your life has given you *reason* not to trust men like me, and I haven't been much *help*." 

"You haven't *touched* me like that!" 

"But I've flirted. I've made it clear to you from the very beginning that I was — and am — attracted to you. That I find you *beautiful* for who you are and how you look and what you *do*. Yes?" 

She swallows — and nods. 

"And you're not used to that meaning anything good. Are you." 

She looks down — 

Frowns — 

And then *jerks* her head up again. "My Da. He had a nasty mouth, like I said. He liked *detailing* all the things which could happen to girls like me —" 

Treville snarls — 

"Girls who were too proud of how they *looked*. Girls who weren't — weren't —" 

"Decent...?" 

"You shut it! You just — just —" 

"I apologize," Treville says, low and even and formal. "I never want to hurt you." 

Constance gives him a bruised look, wide-eyed and hurt and confused. 

Treville would like to know, very badly, how much comforting she got from that mother of hers. 

That mother waiting and waiting for her evil bastard of a man to disappear and some friendly fellow to take his place. 

That... 

But it's an old story. 

And he has to be honest with his family. "Constance... I badly want to comfort you. I'm never going to *presume* on you, and I apologize for every time I've done so in the past —" 

"No — *no*!" 

"Constance —" 

"Bloody *no*," she says, and strides up to him — and shoves him. 

Treville steps back — 

And back some more when she shoves him again — 

And back into the *corner* — 

And then she's panting at him. 

Staring at him and panting and — 

"I won't move —" 

"*No*," she says again, and hugs him, awkward and violent and fierce. 

Treville shivers and *thinks* — but no, she's made herself clear. He hugs her back just as firmly, if a little more gently. 

She *shudders* violently, but doesn't make any moves toward letting go. 

Neither does he. 

She presses closer — 

Treville carefully rearranges the hug to make it a little more *comfortable* — 

"Oh." 

"Better?" 

"You know it is!" 

"Well, you might have enjoyed all the jabbing and stabbing —" 

She punches him, nearly exactly where Amina used to. 

He rumbles helplessly — 

"What... what —" 

"A happy noise. I'm more of a dog than anything else, really." 

She stiffens — and then relaxes herself slowly and deliberately. 

"All right?" 

"I... you don't... you don't show your dog. Very much." 

And Treville is about to point out all the growling and snarling he's been doing — 

But then there's all the growling and snarling *she's* been doing. 

All right, then. He strokes her back. "I'm used to keeping... the *most* obvious aspects of the dog inside me under wraps." 

"Like... when you shift." 

"And when I bark, or yip, or lick people instead of kissing them —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"But we don't have to talk about —" 

"You've been hiding it from *me*!" And she pulls back, which is the *last* thing he'd wanted. 

He smiles ruefully. "I've been hiding it from everyone since Laurent and Marie-Angelique died —" 

"Oh. How long ago...?" 

"A little over four years, now. They were the last of my pack." 

She bites her lip — stops that. "I'm sorry. You don't — you don't owe me anything —" 

"Wrong. I owe you absolutely all of myself, daughter." 

She shivers. "Treville..." 

"Correction: I owe you absolutely all of myself that you *want* to deal with," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

"What if that's... all of you?" 

Treville's heart pounds — 

*Pounds* — 

"Then that's what you'll have. But —" 

"You have to show me everything, Treville," she says. "You *have* to." 

"Constance —" 

"If you don't show me everything?"

"I — what?" 

She grins meanly. "Then I won't know what to tell you to *change*. What to — to toss out the window with what's in the *chamberpot*." 

Treville coughs a laugh. "Is that so...?" 

She nods decisively... and then bites her lip again. 

Treville *stops* himself for a moment — and then gives in to the urge to cup her chin. "Tell me." 

"I'm. When you watch me sleep tonight..." 

"I don't have to —" 

She looks at him. Hard. 

"Right you are. You were saying?" 

"Come *in* the room, Treville. Standing in the doorway like that reminds me of when my Da was drunk and thinking of doing... whatever he was too cowardly to actually do."

Treville growls. "I wish —" 

"That *you'd* killed him? Maybe given him to your men to beat half to death? I *saw* what you all did to *Sauvage*." 

"Do you *disapprove*?" 

She blushes and smiles. "No. But..." 

"It's different when it's your family. I understand —" 

"Not that. Or not quite that," she says, and shrugs a little. "I think I would've looked at you a *little* differently if you had beaten my Da to death, Treville." 

"Hm. There is that. I *can* be charming, though —" 

"Bloody prove it!" 

He steps back, sweeps off the hat he's not wearing, bows low and makes a leg — 

"Oh — you arse!" 

He stands and flourishes — and produces the small, ruby-and-gold brooch that had never been right for his Amina-love, but would liven up any number of his daughter's relentlessly practical dresses. 

"What — what is..." 

Treville grins and brings it closer to her face. 

"Oh — *Treville* — you didn't — you shouldn't — this isn't for *me*!" 

"It truly is —" 

She harrumphs *and* stomps *and* flushes — 

"No...?" 

"I..." She glances at it again — 

Takes a *closer* look —

Swallows — 

Blushes *under* her flush — 

"A young noblewoman simply *must* —" 

"Don't you start that shite!" 

Treville coughs into his free hand — 

"I — I...." 

"Mm?" 

Constance growls and picks up the brooch. And examines it. And blushes harder. "You couldn't have bought this since — since." 

Treville inclines his head. "I originally had it made for my Amina-love, but it was all wrong for her. I think it will look beautiful on *you*." 

Her hands shake — and stop, and she *glares* at him. "You won't buy me!" 

"Of course not —" 

"Not — not — don't try!" 

"I won't; I promise. I just wanted something special for today," he says, and smiles ruefully. 

Her eyes soften — and she nods. 

And pins the brooch on. It's crooked, but he will *not* offer to straighten it. "Beautiful daughter," he says, and smiles. 

"It's crooked, isn't it." 

"I —" 

"Yes or no." 

"... yes." 

She smiles at him wryly. "You get points for not *immediately* grabbing at my chest —" 

"Thank you!" 

"But *lose* them *immediately* for planning to let me go about with a crooked brooch!" 

"... right you are." 

She harrumphs... but she's smiling when she does it, and she takes his hands in her own, well-worked ones, and squeezes. "Good night, Treville." 

He squeezes back. "Sleep well, daughter." 

She holds his hands for another long moment — 

And then she releases him and goes.


	5. It's time to talk about MOTHER.

When he watches her that night, he steps into the room, as per her instructions. 

She's sprayed the musk he bought for her in a few places — nowhere near the bed. 

The brooch has pride of place on her vanity. 

The book on her bedside table is a psalter, but damnit, if that's what she wants to learn to read from, then that's what she'll *have*. 

There's a bible in this house *somewhere* — he'll find it for her.

Or — 

Maybe he'll commission a better one? Something with a lot of nice illustrations? She ought to have something nice to *look* at while she's drowning in all those lies — 

Oh, he'll have to tell her about the All-Mother. 

Hm. 

That could be — 

"I only wanted the psalter because all the rich girls had them," she slurs into her pillow. 

It's actually fairly incoherent, but he has good ears — 

And he has absolutely been looming over the bed dragging his fingers over the psalter for some unknown length of time — damn. 

"I'm sorry —" 

"'s all right. What's wrong," she says, and rolls over, wiping the drool off her cheek matter-of-factly. 

Her nightdress is just as practical as everything else she owns, and he wants to drown her in flowers. Silks. Something. 

"What are you thinking about," she says, and gives him a look so suspicious that he's reasonably sure she already knows. 

"I wanted to give you prettier things to sleep in —" 

She makes a face. "They're for *sleeping*!" 

"Right you are —" 

"Do you have a fixation for that or something?" 

"Absolutely not —" 

"Are you *sure* —" 

"I'm positive. Naked or leathers." 

She harrumphs. "What's *wrong*?"

"Nothing —" 

"*Are* you upset about the psalter? I know you um. Follow the old ways?" 

"Well, I — I wanted to talk to you about that, actually." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"Mm." Treville taps the psalter. "I was *thinking* about buying you a nice bible of your own —" 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

"But I was also thinking that I had to tell you about my religion. About the All-Mother." 

"The... All-Mother? A Mother... goddess?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "*The* Mother goddess. She's the Mother of every living being on earth — except one —" 

"Um." 

"Earth-mages — and non-human animals — have an easier time communicating with Her than any of Her other children —" 

"Communicating — *what* —" 

"But She's very real, and She's right *there*, and if you have any questions about religion, I'll be happy to ask Her for you, the next time I commune with Her." 

Constance stares at him. 

"Oh — when I say 'commune', I mean, 'open myself to Her and Her immense power, and have Her draw me into Her — into the earth — so that She can speak to me directly and easily.'" 

"What the bloody *hell*." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Ask any question. Ask *every* question." 

"Why haven't you been drowned or beaten or *burned* or something?" 

"Most of the people being executed at the end of witch trials are perfectly innocent men and women who don't have any eldritch powers whatsoever. Most witches know how to *hide*, when push comes to shove." 

"But — for the *heresy*." 

Treville taps the psalter and shows his teeth a little. "The All-Mother is — mostly — amused by all these new religions which have popped up in the past couple of thousand years." 

She makes a sound like she's choking on a flask full of holy water. 

"The Church does some very pretty dancing around for the idea of whether or not people who lived before Christ could be good enough to get into — their idea of — heaven, but that alone..." He shakes his head. "There are people living and dying right now who've never so much as met a Christian. People who never hurt an innocent, people who love their neighbours, people who help the poor and lead lives of quiet faith and charity. The Church would have us believe that those people still aren't *good* enough. 

"A *soldier* knows that an arsehole is an arsehole, no matter what god he claims to follow, and a good bloke is a good bloke." And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

Constance raises her own. 

"No, daughter?" 

"Oh, I'm not arguing with you, Treville —" 

"All *right* —" 

"I'm just wondering if you *really* plan to buy me a bible if I want one." And she *looks* at him. 

Treville licks his lips — 

Tugs at his collar — 

"I..." 

She crosses her arms under her breasts. 

"*Well*, daughter —" 

"*Yes*, Treville?" 

"You *might* wind up like Aramis — who is one of Porthos's closest, dearest brothers, and a heretic of the *highest* order." 

"Hey!" 

"*He* believes in a Christ of brotherhood, acceptance, absolute love, poverty, and *compassion* for *all* men and women, from the lowliest street whore to the princes of the land." 

"What the *hell* kind of Christ is *that*?" 

"He'll swear up and down that it's right there in the bible, for anyone with eyes to see. And I'll tell you a secret, daughter..." 

"*What*?" 

"When I've listened to his little sermons in the mess — with him *quoting* scripture at the men who would sit still for it — it was awfully convincing." 

She scowls at him. 

"Mm?" 

"You *just* *said* that *your* goddess was the real one!" 

"I didn't say She was the only one, daughter," Treville says, and winks — 

Constance *squawks*, sitting up and smacking him with her pillow — 

Treville snickers and lets her. "I've, personally, only met two gods — the All-Mother and this ravening, blood-tribute-demanding pillock —" 

"I." 

"But the ally who helped me find Porthos — that would be Jason Blood, and he's an *excellent* conversationalist and an altogether good man to have at your back —" 

"But is he a good *man*?" 

"Well... yes?" 

"Is that a *question*?" 

"No, daughter. He has some curses on him, and his sense of humour is a bit dark, but he fights for the right at *all* times and *ends* people who *don't*." 

"Oh." 

"Yes?" 

"No, I — it was just the way you *said* it," Constance says, and sets her pillow up behind her so she can sit up. 

Treville nods. "I've thought a lot about how I would've gone about introducing Jason to the pack I've lost..." 

"You... he would've gotten on with them?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "He would've been one of us. *They* would've found a way to keep him from running back to England all the time." 

"Oh. I'm sorry," Constance says, and frowns. "Do you... fight?" 

"We bicker. That's a more accurate word for it," he says, and thinks about Jason's last visit. "I've asked him if I'm too much of an arse for him, if there's something I could do to keep him..." Treville licks his lips. "I don't know. Maybe he just doesn't want —" 

"Maybe he doesn't bloody believe you're *serious*!" 

Treville blinks at Constance. "I... Constance —" 

"You — you joke *around* all the time, Treville!" 

"That I do —" 

"And you tell people you — you *care* about them —" 

"Love you. I *love* you —" 

"Before they even have a chance to *know* you!" 

Treville stares — 

Considers — 

Licks his lips — 

She growls at him — 

"No, no, you're heard —" 

"*Am* I?" 

"You are," he says, and crouches next to her bed. "If you need me to be more serious with you, I will be, daughter —" 

"We're not *talking* about me —" 

"But —" 

She *looks* at him. 

Treville coughs. "Right you are. I'll talk to *him* seriously about my feelings, and how important he is to me, and I'll ask him to please just tell me straight if he wants to keep things as casual as they have been." 

She nods — and then searches him. 

"Daughter?" 

"How many..." She flushes. 

"Mm? I'll tell you anything you want to know, at any —" 

"How many people are you in *love* with?" 

Treville blinks. "Well — I'll always be in love with my first pack... and my father —" 

"How many *living* — wait," Constance says, and frowns. 

"What is it, daughter?" 

"I... I don't know how you have that much... room in your heart," she says, and doesn't look at him. 

"I've always been more of a dog than anything else, daughter. Even before my Amina-love and I were bound to dog-spirits, augmenting our power and making us shifters, we were both pretty doggy. Dogs — even bad-natured ones like I've tended to be —" 

"It's *not* just that you're a dog!" 

"All right," Treville says, and grins. "What is it?" 

Constance glares at him — 

And Treville is occasionally not a *complete* idiot. He rests a hand on her bed, not especially close to her body, and says, "I love you. I love Porthos. I love Jason. I loved — and will always love — Amina and the rest of my first pack, and my father. I don't fall out of love. As near as I've been able to tell, I don't run out of *room* for love — and I certainly don't run out of room for the *people* I love —" 

"*How* do you make room for them? How — how many *people* were in your first pack?" 

"My Amina-love; my brothers Kitos, Reynard, and Laurent; and Laurent's wife Marie-Angelique." 

She looks at him with consternation. 

"I'll answer —" 

"You made love with — all of them." 

"Yes." 

"All the *time*." 

"All the chances we could get, daughter, but: one, Amina came first when we all had her; two, the life of a Musketeer takes you *away* from your loved ones a *lot* of the time; and three, we were often... ah..." 

"*What*?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "They weren't *just* all *my* lovers, daughter. We were all each *other's* lovers." 

"Oh." 

"I came first for Amina, too, but that didn't mean we weren't all in each other's beds as often as possible, daughter. We were... we were *pack*." 

Constance blushes. "And that... that's one of the things pack means to you." 

"That's right." 

She searches him for a long moment. 

"*Ask*." 

"No, I'm. I'm not ready for the answer." 

Treville frowns. "Daughter...?" 

"Let me sleep? And... and *you* sleep. And think about talking to your *son*." 

"I *will*, but —" 

"I *promise* I won't be... beating myself up," she says, and smiles ruefully. "It's not a question like that."

He lifts his nose helplessly — but that was honest. 

He's left with the fact that he absolutely does not want to leave his beautiful daughter alone, yet — 

And the fact that he absolutely must. He licks his lips and stands. "All right, daughter. I'll let you rest," he says, and smiles ruefully. "I... maybe you can tell that I like your company?" 

She reaches over and covers his hand. "You've been lonely." 

"I —" 

"If you try to deny that, I'll break at least one of your fingers," she says, and *looks* at him. 

Treville sighs happily. "All right, daughter, but let's look at it this way, mm?" 

She narrows her eyes. "What way." 

"Not every kind of loneliness can be fixed by every kind of company. You've already learned that lesson the hard way, I think...?" 

She scowls. "My Da's company couldn't fix *anyone's* loneliness." 

"And your mother's...?" 

She looks at him hard, but, after a moment, nods slowly. 

He turns his hand so that he can hold her hand lightly. "Daughter... you've been exactly what I've needed. What I've needed for a long, long time." He smiles happily. "My old pack would've adored you — and fallen all over themselves to teach you everything they knew about *everything*. And then fallen all over themselves to do *other* things with —" 

She tugs her hand back. "Let me — let me sleep, please." 

Treville winces. "I fucked it up again." 

She smiles ruefully. "Not really." 

"Daughter —" 

"It's just... more questions I don't want answers to, Treville." 

"Then —" 

"Not... not yet." 

Treville inhales — 

Breathes in her honesty, her worry, her tiredness, her *certainty* — in this. 

"Not yet," he says. "I'll keep my mouth on a lead —" 

She snorts. "No, you bloody *won't*." 

"I'll... *try* to keep my mouth on a lead?" 

She gives him a soft look. 

A *warm* and soft and — 

"Go on with you," she says. "I'll see you at breakfast." 

Treville sweeps off the hat he isn't wearing and bows — 

She *giggles* softly — 

He sweeps the imaginary hat back on at a jaunty angle and takes his leave.


	6. You are *absolutely* the prettiest princess, Constance. Please don't hurt me.

At breakfast, she's wearing the darkest and most *grim* of her practical dresses, but she's also wearing the brooch, *and* she'd gotten help from Beatrice — the maid he'd hired just for her, who has been coming to him in despair for Constance's independence — to fix her hair a different way. 

It's still half-up and half-down, but the up part is wound through with the gold ribbon he'd bought for her, and the curls have been enhanced somehow, and the *ribbons* are curled — 

"*Well*?"

Treville coughs — he's been staring. "You look beautiful." 

She looks suspicious. 

"I mean it! I was trying to figure out *how* Beatrice managed that with your hair —" 

"There's nothing wrong with my bloody hair!" 

"No, there absolutely isn't, but I've always been flummoxed by the complicated styles. It's all sailors' knots to me." 

She stares at him from where she's standing just inside the doorway of *his* sitting room, where Alaire had informed him that she wanted them to breakfast this morning.

He raises his eyebrows from his side of the small table. 

She snorts and reaches up to touch her hair — and then obviously thinks better of it. She moves to join him. "I was *watching* her do it, and I *still* don't know what she did."

Treville laughs. "Sailors' knots?" 

"There could be a whole horse-tail in there and I wouldn't know!" 

Treville splutters and pours her tea. 

"Oh — thank you —" 

"Do *you* like it, daughter?" 

"I *do*! I feel like a bloody princess! But I also..." 

"Mm?" And Treville pours for himself. "And you're absolutely the princess of this castle, which, as we know, is the most important one in France —" 

"So you're a witch, a heretic, *and* a traitor?" 

"I like to keep busy. But you were saying?" 

She hoots a little — 

Coughs — 

And blushes. 

Treville grins. "I like that sound." 

"You bloody *what*?" 

"I like anyone who laughs like they *mean* it, daughter. Who doesn't hold back. Who doesn't... lie with their laughter." 

She studies him, wide-eyed and thoughtful for long moments — and then she nods. "I um. I was going to say that it didn't feel like *me*, Treville. That's all. Just... maybe for special occasions?" 

"Absolutely. Would you like a ball?" 

She stares at him. 

"I'll be honest, you'll hate most of the people I'd have to invite, but there are a few —"

"*Treville*." 

"Is that a... not... yet?" 

She narrows her eyes. "Are you about to tell me I *have* to have one?" 

"Not... technically?" 

"But *practically*?" 

"I'm afraid so. The good news is that after you're introduced to all those people, you can dance with whomever you wish, and eat all the delicious food, and tell everyone else to fuck right off." 

She grins — stops. "Is that true?" 

"Well..." 

"*Treville*!" 

"Put it this way: It's bloody well true at any and every ball *I* throw for any and every daughter *I* have." And he looks at her. *Hard*. 

She looks back. *Harder*. 

"Daughter —" 

"I'm *not* going to damage your *position*!" "

"*I'm* not going to make your life hell —" 

"Oh, you *idiot*. Do you really think any of this is *hard* for me?"

"I *know* it is —" 

"Compared to living on the *street*?" 

"I want you to be *happy* with me, daughter — not just happier than you were on the *street*." 

"You want — a lot of things." 

Treville growls. "Your happiness is the most *important* of those things." 

"Oh — fuck, Treville," she says, reaching up for her hair — 

Freezing — 

*Growling* — 

"We'll find something else for you to get Beatrice to do." 

"Oh, fuck, she was so *happy* this morning." 

Treville laughs ruefully. "She told me." 

Constance gives him a horrified look — and then a rueful one. "She's been telling you about how I don't let her... do anything." 

"Mm-hm." And Treville lets himself twinkle at his beautiful daughter a little. 

"It's just that I don't understand the *point* of making someone else do all these things *for* me." 

"How's this: You'll have more time to do other things." 

"I —" 

"You'll have more time to do other things you want and *need* to do, like learning how to *ride* and *fight*." 

Constance flushes. 

"Studying is *not* shirking. It's a luxury we — horrifically — only give to the very fortunate, but that does *not* make it an unworthy pursuit." And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

She flushes more deeply... and nods. 

"Good girl," Treville says, and rings the bell. "What will you be working on today?"

"Reading and writing in the morning with Marin, then shooting with Dauvet." 

"More with the pistol, or will he be trying you on other guns?" 

"He says I'm making good progress with the pistol —" 

"And you truly are, daughter. You have a *wonderful* eye." 

She flushes again. "Dauvet says he wants me to be completely comfortable with it before he starts me with the other guns." 

Treville frowns. 

"You don't like that?" 

"We don't tend to stand on ceremony with our boys like that..." 

*She* frowns — 

"I'll talk to him." 

She nods. 

"It drives me up a *tree* to have to leave the lion's share of your training in other men's hands. Men who want to reinvent the *wheel* just because you don't have a *cock*." 

She *coughs* — 

Visibly recovers — 

And then leans in. "If you *tell* me what he *should* be teaching me, *I'll* tell him. You shouldn't always be stepping in for me." 

"I —" 

"I'm not some fainting little flower!" 

*Treville* coughs — "Right you *are*, daughter, but..." He smiles wryly. "Let me step in one last time with all of them, mm?" 

"Why — oh. So they *will* listen to a woman," she says, and picks up her knife. 

"My sentiments precisely, daughter. We'll *both* have their bollocks for this. How *has* Marin been, by the way?" 

"Oh, he's fine! I feel like I'm learning *quickly*." 

"Yes?" 

"I..." And she blushes. "I'll have something to show you tomorrow." 

Treville blinks. "Daughter?" 

"It's nothing — it's not *big*, or — it's just. I wanted him to teach me how to do that *first*, and he did. He always teaches me what I want to learn." 

Treville hums. "You run him over like a carter in the street." 

"I do nothing of the *kind*," she says, and lifts her nose high. "Princesses never do." 

Just then, Justine comes in with their breakfasts on a platter, grinning and cooing — 

Constance blushes *hard* —

Justine hums and *stops* cooing — but gives them both approving looks before she goes. 

"I..." 

"Eat up, now, daughter. Marin might have grown a new backbone overnight — it takes *vigor* to crush those —" 

She brandishes her knife perfectly. 

Treville grins and winks. 

She smiles wryly and sets to, curls bouncing.


	7. BREAKING: Treville is *still* a deviant.

In his office, he practices what he's going to say to Porthos the next time he sees the man: 

"Porthos, there's something we need to talk about." Or, 

"Porthos, I wasn't completely honest with you the day we met." Or, 

"Porthos, in all honesty, sometimes I'm a lying arsehole. Please sit down for at least a few minutes — I promise to give you many opportunities to punch the living shit out of me." And, 

"Do you think I could take you home to meet Constance?" And, 

"You'd like her; she thinks about stabbing me at *least* once a day." 

He drops his face into his hands and laughs a little painfully. 

He thinks about Porthos convincing Constance to go live with *him* — 

He thinks about Porthos and Constance fucking like *animals*, and that — 

Well, that eats up a large portion of his day, to be perfectly honest. 

Which is why he's sweaty, rueful, hard, stupid, *and* behind on his *actual work* when he hears Porthos's, Athos's, and Aramis's footsteps on the walk. 

He *really* wasn't expecting them until — 

But they're here *now*, and that means he has to bloody *cope*. 

... and, considering the state of his tackle, not stand up quite yet. 

He takes a *breath*, letting them all get a little closer to the door than usual — he can *feel* them wondering about that — "*Get in here*," he calls in the Captain's voice — 

"Right you are, sir," Porthos says, with a *jaunty* smile in his voice — 

Well, that's promising — 

And then they're all inside, tall and strong and beautiful — their leathers don't even look much more beat-up than they were when they left, which is...

Hm. Treville crosses his arms in front of him and raises his eyebrows at his boys. 

Athos *looks* at Aramis and Porthos, and then turns back to him. "We found the spymaster's lover first — she is an acquaintance of one of Aramis's..." 

"Acquaintances," Aramis says, smiling and bowing slightly. 

Athos huffs — 

Porthos smacks the back of Aramis's head —

Aramis coughs — 

Treville clears his throat. Once. 

They all look sharp. 

"The lover had information for you." 

"She had information for *Aramis*, sir," Porthos says, and snorts. 

Treville represses a snort of his own, and rolls his eyes. "And that information led you to...?" 

"Absolutely *all* of the spymaster's employees and *their* lovers, sir," Athos says. "The rest was a matter of waiting — and timing." 

"Prisoners...?" 

"Two, sir," Aramis says, "Waiting in the dungeon. Porthos and I have already taken preliminary reports." 

Treville allows himself a broad smile. "Excellent work, gentlemen." 

They bow as the honed unit they are. 

Treville laughs. "You all have two days' leave for this. I expect you all to spend it as degenerately as humanly possible. Make *more* friendly contacts." 

Athos coughs — 

Aramis looks thoughtful — 

"We'll do our *best*, sir," Porthos says lustily. 

Treville grins again. "Dismissed — except for you, Porthos. There's a matter we need to discuss," he says, before he can stop himself. 

Athos and Aramis look to Porthos, who is blinking — 

And Treville damned well keeps the grin on his face. No whispers unless *Porthos* wants them. 

When the door's closed behind the others, and Treville can tell that they're out of earshot — 

"Sir...? What's wrong?" 

"Oh, son... you didn't buy that smile at all, did you." 

"Fuck — uh..." 

"At ease," Treville says, standing now that his cock is feeling a little bit reasonable again and raising his hands. "You've done nothing wrong. You've *said* nothing wrong. You've been — and are — an incredible man and an incredible soldier —" 

"You sound like you're saying *goodbye*, sir —"

Treville blinks — 

Drops his hands — 

And smiles ruefully. "Perhaps just to your good opinion of me, son." 

Porthos frowns. "What...? What do you mean?" 

Treville nods to the chair in front of the desk. "Take a seat, son. Just for now. I can almost guarantee that you're going to want to punch me in the face by the time I finish talking — and I'll certainly give you a chance to do it —" 

"Sir, *what* —" 

"Sit. Down," Treville says. "Please." 

Porthos stares at him for a long moment. And then nods and sits. 

"Thank you, son," Treville says, and half-sits, half-leans against the desk in front of Porthos. "I'll be honest with you — I barely know where to start. The gist: Your mother and I were lovers —" 

"Sodding *what* —" 

"We began *after* she was already pregnant with you, to answer that question —" 

"Where *were* you?"

Treville feels his expression crumple. "Let me show you, son. Let me show you... everything." 

"Did you bloody think I'd say *no*?" 

Treville holds up a hand — 

"Don't *stop* me —" 

"*Wait*. 

Porthos *growls* — 

Treville's *ears* twitch — 

"What — what the bloody hell —" 

"*Son*. If I *show* you everything, it would involve me using my *power*," Treville says, and makes his eyes gleam — 

"*Shit* —" 

"I would use my power to *awaken* *your* latent power, because I was *bound* to my Amina-love *and* you while you were still in the womb. Your power is a match to my own. It's just being *blocked* now." 

"What the — I *know* my mum was a witch, and the witches I came up around always said I *might* grow into power myself, but — this is..." And Porthos shakes his head. 

"Let me show you, son. *Please* let me —" 

"Why didn't you show me — what's so special about *now*?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Now I have a daughter —" 

"That's *right* you do. You don't bloody *need* a son —" 

"Yes, I do. I've always — I've needed you from the moment I could first smell you in your mother's scents. I." 

Porthos *stares* at him. 

Treville growls and gives himself a shake. "I'm sorry. I'm — that was inappropriate. What I was going to say is that I told Constance about you, and she promptly called me on the carpet for being a lying *jackass*. And she was absolutely right. I *thought* I had a good reason not to tell you about our connection. I *thought* it was right not to bury you in the pain and misery of the past when you seemed to only want a life of honour as a Musketeer —" 

"You never gave me the chance to bloody *say*!" 

"And Constance pointed that out, and I'm occasionally not very bright," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "I'd like to start the process of making amends." 

"And then give me two days to cool *off*?" 

"Or less." 

"*What*?" 

"Constance would very much like to meet her big brother." 

Porthos's jaw drops. "You." 

Treville winces and raises a hand again. "I know it's too much. You don't have to say. I know... well. Let me give you what I've singularly *failed* to give you. Let me show you your past." 

Porthos swallows and nods. "What — what do I have to do?" 

"Nothing, son. Just..." And Treville reaches for his boy, for his *power*... 

"What do you mean?" 

"You did the major work of this by walking into my office three years ago looking for Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville... as you'll see in a moment," Treville says, taking *hold* — 

"Shit — I can *feel* —" 

You feel me. 

(Treville! Fuck — *fuck* — that's all you had to *do*?) 

Yes. And you're good at this kind of communication, for a beginner. 

(Mum taught me how, when she was pouring her magic into me. She said... she said I might need it someday.) 

Treville shivers. This is why she couldn't tell you why, he says, and gives his son everything. 

One piece at a time. 

From the very first night in the teashop — and after in Amina's rooms. 

To the night kneeling together in the Circle in *Ife's* rooms — and after discovering each other's bodies like children, and like anything but. 

To the *first* night she'd looked around Marie-Angelique's parlor at the rest of their pack with acquisitive eyes and declared — *to* Marie-Angelique — that her sweet brother had done a passable job at building a pack for them, and deserved a reward. They'd kissed, deep and slow and wet — and laughed their way apart at all of their men's gawping. And then they'd opened their arms. 

To the night in his rooms in Paris, and Treville had never told his Amina-love that she'd dislocated two of his fingers when the babe's head was breaching — he'd popped them right back in when she'd finally let him go so she could lick the babe clean. She'd let him bite the umbilical, and they'd both wept. 

To the night before Treville had left for that *damned* mission, and Treville's healings alone hadn't been enough to make her ready to make love *that* way again, and they'd been impatient, teasing, laughing, plotting mayhem for the midwife, not suspecting, not *suspecting* —

And then he gives Porthos the rest. The years of hunting and the years of *aching*. 

The revenge he'd taken. 

*All* of the revenge he'd taken — including the *last* revenge, with Jason Blood, which had led to — 

"What — what — you *summoned* me!" And Porthos stands and sways — 

Shakes himself *exactly* like their son — and steadies himself before Treville can do a damned thing. 

"Answer me!" 

"I — we — summoned you. I couldn't wait one day more to have you close. To know you were *safe*." 

"And then you changed your bloody *mind*?" 

"What? No!" 

"You didn't *tell* me anything!" 

"It was because —" Treville shakes his head. "I wasn't expecting a young man who actually *wanted* to be a Musketeer, son. That was... more perfect than any *dream* I could have had." 

"Then —" 

"It was — it seemed like the *correct* thing to do to give you the Captain —" 

"And not the man you actually *are*? Not my. My." And Porthos actually blanches, which — 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You don't have to say it. You *never* have to say it, if you don't want to." 

"You *just* bloody showed me you and Mum making love —" 

"I —" 

"You were there for my *birth* —" 

"Of course I was —" 

"You want me to meet your *daughter* —" 

"She's a wonderful girl, you'd like her —" 

"What part of that translates to me not having to use the word *father* ever?" 

Treville — takes a breath. And slowly closes the — small — distance between him and Porthos, cupping Porthos's magnificent shoulders. "Is this all right?" 

"It *is*, sir, but — now isn't the time for you to comfort me like the *Captain*." 

Treville *squeezes* Porthos's shoulders — too hard. 

"Shit, you're strong —" 

"You're going to be stronger, too." 

"What — oh. Fuck. You — you *made* me stronger!" 

"I also made you a shifter, son, so you're going to need a little training." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"But I won't come at you like the Captain. I'll be myself. All right?" 

"I — yeah?" 

Treville nods. 

"Then... uh... weren't those Athos's *parents*?" 

"Your godparents, son." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"And... part of my first pack, with your mother." 

"Your *lovers*." 

Treville smiles wryly. "With Kitos and Reynard. Athos's Uncles, with me, when he was still Olivier." 

"He's *mentioned* — *shit* — he never mentioned all the *fucking*." 

"Well, I think you have to hit him very hard for that, son." 

Porthos splutters. "*Sir*."

Treville hums. "In all honesty, I know he's still grieving for his brother. Both of them were *my* godsons. You would've grown up right with them." 

"That's... hunh." 

"Hard to imagine...?" 

"Sodding *impossible*. I... he hasn't told me *much* about his childhood, but compared to *mine*, it's just... alien." 

"I'd like to know more about yours, son." 

Porthos looks at him. Just... looks. 

Treville leaves himself open for it. 

"No, I — I know you're being honest." 

"You can feel it now." 

"I — yeah, I *can*. *Fuck* — no, no, I was just going to say... I always meant to try to figure out how to *ask* you about that one day." 

"About...?" 

"All the different *ways* you asked me about my childhood, sir. You... you didn't do it *every* time we talked, but... every time we were *alone* together." 

"Every..." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Treville coughs. "I didn't really think about how much I needed you, son. I didn't *let* myself think about it, except in... narrow ways. Safer ways." 

"What does that mean?" 

Well, he'd walked into that question. Treville releases Porthos's shoulders and steps back — 

"Sir?" 

"I haven't done well... at keeping my thoughts about you... clean." 

"Uh." 

"I —" 

"Wait. Just..." 

Treville swallows and winces again. "I'll wait, son — Porthos." 

Porthos shudders. "Mum was teasing you about boys in more than one of those memories." 

"She always knew about my deviance." 

"But she trusted you with me?" 

And Treville gives his beautiful son his memories of Amina explaining to him in no uncertain terms that he *would* feel desire for both Marie-Angelique's and Laurent's son and their own, that they would grow into beautiful young men, and that he would be himself. Always himself. 

That he would dream and wish and toss himself off to them, and teach them every lesson about how to protect themselves, and never touch them inappropriately — until they demanded that very thing.

_"Because, sweet brother, you will *always* be yourself," Amina had said, and pulled him down to her huge belly —_

_Perfect belly —_

_She'd held him._

_And let him weep._

Porthos flares his nostrils again and again — 

He's starting to experience scents the way a dog would — including remembered scents. 

"Yeah. I am. I... fuck, sir," he says, and stares down at him. "She really loved you." 

Treville nods. "I loved her more than anyone or anything on earth... until you were born. We shifted our focus just a little, then." 

Porthos inhales sharply — and frowns. "I'm not a boy anymore, sir." 

"And I always preferred men to boys." 

"Then why were you fucking enough boys to be teased for it?" 

"Because I didn't have the men I wanted — at the time." 

Porthos nods slowly. "Your brothers. Your *pack*." 

"That's right. Your mother and I getting together... it was the catalyst for *all* of us getting together, except for Laurent and Marie-Angelique, who were already married." 

"I..." And Porthos looks down — 

Away — 

"We're dancing around..." 

'What do you *want* to talk about, son?" 

Porthos takes a deep breath and looks to him again. "What do you want from me?" 

Everything. "Your happiness. Your comfort. Your —" 

"Wait, just wait. We both know I could *hear* what you *actually* want, sir." 

"Some desires are more *important* than others —" 

"Are they?" 

"Bloody *yes*!" 

Porthos nods once. "Right, that's what I needed to know." 

"I — what?" 

"I still owe you *this*," Porthos says, and punches him in the belly, staggering him and knocking the *wind* out of him in a whuffing rush — but Porthos immediately steadies him and sets him down on the desk while he wheezes himself back to something like right.

It takes a bit, even with enhanced healing. 

"All right, sir?" 

Treville licks his lips. And grins. "You're going to want to pull your punches with humans a *little* more than that, son." 

"Oh, I know *that*, sir. I figured *you* could take it," Porthos says, and grins like an *arsehole*. 

"Oh, son. You couldn't be more my son without — well, tell me. How deviant are *you*?" 

"Uhh..." 

"I'm not asking for details, mind, but your mother and I... well." And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"You're making me regret not letting you hit the *floor*, you know." 

Treville snickers — 

Coughs — 

Pulls on a sober expression — badly — 

"You *arse*. Does Constance put up with this?"

"This is when she usually threatens to stab me —" 

"You're right, I *do* like her — wait." 

"Mm?" 

"Are you *fucking* her." 

"No." 

"No?" 

"No." 

"Right, all right." 

"I'd *like* to be —" 

Porthos smacks the back of his head — 

Treville snickers *hard*. "You set that up so *beautifully*, son." 

"Were you this much of an arse with — no, you absolutely were, and Mum *loved* it. *Fuck*." 

"That she did, son. But *you* don't have to put up with it." 

"Yes, I bloody do!" 

"Son —" 

"The day I *don't* have to put up with it? Is the day you *stop* calling me son. And I'm willing to *bet* my little *sister* feels the same *way* when you call her *daughter*." 

"I — do call her that." 

"And *mean* it." 

"That I do —" 

"And she bloody *loves* it." 

"I'm not entirely sure —" 

Porthos makes a scoffing noise. 

"Son —" 

"*Sir*. *All* the men were talking about you bringing Constance in, and how she looked at you, and smiled for you, and blushed when you smiled at *her*." 

"They — she *liked* it here, son, which is wonderful, I want to bring her all the time —" 

"*Do* that. Because she bloody likes *you* pretty good. *Just like everyone else here*." 

Treville blinks — 

Ducks his head — 

And smiles. 

"You arse. You actually *didn't* know that," Porthos says, shaking his head and looking at him wryly. 

"I've... never been much good at knowing when people care about me, son. Not when they don't spell it out in big, shining letters and nail the parchment to my face." 

Porthos snorts and gives him a friendly shove. "*I* like you." 

"Excellent." 

"I've been tossing myself *off* to you for *years*." 

Treville *grunts* — 

"Sometimes I call you 'Daddy' in those fantasies —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"— but... uh. That was *before* I knew you were *actually my Daddy*." 

"That's... fair," Treville says, and does not, does *not*, let his mind look at any of the things it wants to look at. 

Not even that thing. 

Or that — no. No. 

Porthos snickers hard. "Are you all *right*?" 

"I'll be fine, son." 

"So... no?" 

"No, son." 

Porthos guffaws. 

Treville grins and turns to drink it in. Just — 

He needs that laugh. 

It's just like his Amina-love's.

"You — you're a bloody *deviant*!" 

"That I am, son. That I am."


	8. 'Alluring' for Treville has some fascinating definitions.

At dinner, Constance's ribbons are somewhat askew, there's a bruise on her cheek, a few of her curls look distinctly *stepped*-on, and she smells *wonderfully* of gunpowder. 

Beatrice must be *despondent*, but — "How's my gorgeous girl?" 

She grins broadly at him. "I surprised Dauvet while we were wrestling! I got him right in the nose! I broke it all over his *face*!" 

"Good *girl*!" 

She bounces in her chair like a much younger girl and makes a little 'eee' noise. "I was using my elbow, too! Just like he'd taught me, and it was hard to see, because of my hair, but I still *got* him!" 

"That's *right*, you did! Tell me —" 

"He was showing me what to do when attackers come up from behind again, and I've been bloody terrible at it in the dresses you've bought me, because they're actually *long* enough to be decent, and decent is bloody hard to work with —" 

"That it is —" 

"But I figured out a way to move my legs, to — to kind of crouch more, you know, for the first spin?" 

"Right, right —" 

"And Dauvet had suggested it, to give my spins more strength, but I guess I wasn't doing it right before! Not like he could tell with my skirts in the way!" 

"That's true —" 

"And the first few times he got me good, which bloody hacked me *off* —"

"Of course —" 

"So I was *determined* to do it *right*, so I watched the way he set himself up for an attack before I turned about, and how he positioned his face, and when he spun, I *slammed* my elbow right back, and *bam*, right in his nose!" And she beams. 

Treville beams right back. "Oh, daughter, that's wonderful! You're perfect. Is Dauvet still about so I can *fix* him?" 

"He said he wanted to let it heal naturally so he could always remember the lesson about underestimating people!" 

Treville rumbles. "So he *can* be taught. All *right*, then." 

Constance bounces a little more in her chair —

Treville grins helplessly. "Was he able to teach you anything else once the bleeding slowed down?" 

"We focused on my shooting for a while — those arquebusiers aren't as heavy as they look!" 

"No, they —" 

"I'm bloody terrible at shooting them, though," she says, and smiles wryly. 

Treville laughs quietly. "They take practice, daughter, as do the muskets. That's why I *wanted* you to get started." 

"Yes, Treville," she says, and sighs. "I still hoped... since I *have* been getting better with pistols..." 

"I know, daughter. But keep in mind: They're all different pieces of machinery. They aren't *completely* different, but they still require different skills. That's why a regiment *has* long-gunners."

"Oh — *oh*!"

"Yes?" 

She nods and beams at him again — 

Treville smiles happily. "Oh, daughter, you make me wish so much that *I* was the one whose nose you'd broken." 

"*Daddy*!" 

"I want to teach you *everything*." 

"You teach me every *day*, and — and. I wish you could teach me more, too," she says, and smiles ruefully. "You're bloody *good* at it." 

"*Thank* you very much for the vote of confidence, daughter. Oh — did Dauvet remind you that sometimes you just *will* have to throw your elbow without any idea of where it will land? That you won't always — or probably ever — have time to calculate?" 

She scowls — "No, he bloody didn't!" 

Treville sighs. "He *might* not have realized you were calculating... or he might have forgotten while he was trying to put his face back together." 

"I —" 

"Neither one is optimal. Damnit. We're just going to have to go over all your lessons together... whenever we have the time for it." 

"I'm sorry, Treville —" 

"Don't *you* apologize, daughter! It's an excuse I wanted to spend more time with you, *and* you didn't make these men..." Treville growls. "If I could get you trained at the garrison, I'd be able to keep an eye on the men training you all day. *Those* men fear my wrath as a matter of course."

Constance grins meanly. "You could always try *gleaming* at Pithou and Dauvet while growling like you're seconds away from ripping out their *throats*." 

Treville nods mock-judiciously and strokes his beard. "It's true that I haven't tried that tack..." 

Constance snickers and smacks him with her napkin. "Call for *dinner*. I'm *hungry*." 

"Absolutely, daughter," he says, and rings the bell — 

And pours heavily-watered wine for them both — 

Waits for Constance to take a sip of hers — 

"So... I spoke to Porthos today," he says. 

She chokes and coughs and *glares* at him. 

He winks — 

"You're an *arsehole* — and you brought me to the garrison the *day* before he was due to return?" 

"I am, but the timing was accidental. His mission wrapped up faster than expected."

She looks at him. 

Treville raises his hands. "I was sitting in my office trying to come up with ways to start the conversation with him when I heard his footsteps on the walk. He was *anything* but expected." 

She narrows her eyes. "Something in there wasn't true." 

Treville coughs. "Right. Thinking about opening gambits to the conversation had led my mind... other places —" 

"*What* other places?" 

Treville licks his lips. "I... feel confident that the answer to this question will make you somewhat uncomfortable —" 

She inhales sharply — "You were thinking about fucking me." 

"Not... quite..." 

"What does *that* bloody mean?" 

"Daughter —" 

"*Tell* me!" 

"I was thinking of you and Porthos making love." 

Constance opens her soft mouth — 

Closes it — 

Swallows — 

*Flushes* — 

Treville *winces* — 

And Justine takes one look at the two of them when she comes in with dinner and glares *hard* at Treville the *entire* time she's serving them. 

He deserves it. 

He acknowledges her with a nod, waits for her to leave again — 

And then Constance clears her throat. "I've been thinking," she says. 

"Yes, daughter?" 

"About you and — pack," she says, and blushes deeply. 

"I'll answer —" 

"I think you just did," she says, and smiles wryly. 

"I..." 

"Or..." She frowns and looks at something behind her own eyes. 

"I'm listening." 

She studies him for a long moment. 

He leaves himself *open* — 

She licks her lips and nods. "Is this — what you do? When you have a pack? You fantasize about the individual members being with you, and you fantasize about them being with each other — and without you?" 

"Part of me wants to ask you if it seems so strange..." 

She looks at him.

Treville laughs softly. "Go on and start eating, daughter. I'll explain this as best as I can." 

"You have to eat, too!" 

"You worked a lot harder than I did today, daughter," he says, and looks at her *hard*. 

She pinkens right up and starts to eat. 

"Good girl," Treville says, and strokes his beard again. "All right. When I was a boy, and fantasizing about my father, and also his lieutenants, I would sometimes watch the lieutenants wrestling and playing with each other to blow off steam, and I would *absolutely* dream about those wrestling matches going farther — with *and* without me, depending on my mood and my desires. 

"Before I had my first pack, but when I still had all my loves, my mind would sometimes drift to fantasies of all of them making love in various combinations — again, with and without me, depending on my mood and my desires. Not all of those times when I dreamed about them making love without me were especially good, or clean, since at those times I was hopelessly convinced that they would never desire me —" 

"Oh — no —" 

"Please keep eating," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "I promise it's all right *now*." 

She eyes him suspiciously — 

"I *promise*." 

She nods slowly, and eats, and damned well keeps her eyes on him. 

Just — 

Good girl. Such a good, good — 

Treville licks his lips. "When my Amina-love and I got together, and put the *pack* together, things were different. We were honest with each other. We were *all* honest with each other. We made that promise to each other, and it was reasonably easy to keep — Amina and Marie-Angelique started a program of all of us reminding each other, as often as possible, that we *wanted* each other's honesty. That we wanted it all the *time*. That it felt *wrong* not to have it. That it *was* wrong not to have it —" 

"That," Constance says. "Bloody *that*." 

"I — what?" 

"It doesn't matter how *uncomfortable* I get, Treville! You have to be *honest* with me. You have to show me who you are, and what you are, and how you think of the world, and how you think of *me*. That's the *only* way I'll get to know you, and the only way I'll eventually come to feel *comfortable* with you." 

"I'll never lie to you again," Treville says — it's more of a desperate blurt. 

Constance cocks her head to the side. "I'm always comfortable in your fantasies of me." 

"Yes. You're happy. Warm. You know you're *loved*." 

"And by Porthos?" 

Treville shivers and growls. "He's incredibly good at making people feel comfortable and secure. And it's not just bullshit, not just him being a good talker. He's a good man. A *loving* man." 

"Like you...?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "My Amina-love always promised that she'd raise him to be just like me, but... he's much more honest. He has a much better nature." 

"He forgave you." 

"Much too quickly. He only punched me *once*, and not even in the face. *And* he kept me from falling over." 

She *looks* at him. 

"Mm?" 

"Did you *tell* him everything?" 

"Everything, daughter. Including the fact that I'm attracted to him." 

"And he didn't punch you *again*?" 

"He looked like he was thinking about it. We talked a bit about his mother, and her attitudes about me and young men. How she'd planned to deal with it if and *when* I wound up attracted to our son." 

Constance blinks rapidly. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "My Amina-love and I talked about... everything." 

"I can bloody see that!"

"*We* don't have to —" 

"Shut it!" 

"Right you are —" 

"I've just never..." She frowns at him. "Do men and women, you know..." 

"Mm?" 

"Do they *talk* like that. When they actually love each other and everything is — is *right*." 

Treville blinks. "You understand I don't have *much* experience —" 

"I know! But — you've had *friends*. Haven't you? Other than your pack?" 

"Not really —" 

"*Damn* —" 

"Mainly because it was rare to meet *anyone*, male *or* female, who was as honest and open and *willing* to share —" 

"Oh." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Sorry about that." 

She scowls at him. 

"I know. I *know*. But Porthos is —" 

"*Treville*." 

"Yes, daughter?" 

"Do you *want* me to fall in love with Porthos?" 

Treville licks his lips. "Quite frankly, I'd like to *smell* that, daughter —" 

She snorts and throws her napkin at him — 

He lets it hit, then catches it and hands it back before it can fall in his food. 

"*Thank* you. *But*?" 

"No real buts, daughter. I pushed down the last magical blocks between me and Porthos. Porthos is *bound* to me by a lot of things. He's the blood in my veins — and I'm the blood in his —" 

"I — oh." 

"I'm in love with you, so it's *possible* that I could be jealous of him with you, if you decided that he was right for you and I wasn't —" 

"*Treville* —" 

"*But*, in the end, he's my boy, and you're my girl. I want the best for both of you. You both *are* the best, so it makes perfect sense in my mind and heart." 

She stares at him. 

He raises his eyebrows — no, wait. Honesty. "Once I understood that I was loved by my first pack, things got easier. *Everything* got easier, but especially my inclination for wanting the best for my loved ones." 

"I... and you know Porthos... loves you?" 

Treville licks his lips. "I don't know... no, that was about to be a hedge. He flat-out told me that he's been tossing himself off to me for years." 

She *coughs* — 

"As for how he feels... well, with the barriers down between us, it's not so hard to feel it for myself," Treville says, and smiles helplessly. 

"Oh. You can't... you can't do that with me." 

Oh, daughter... "Not like that." Not in a way that would sit remotely *well* with you — "But — I have my senses." 

Her eyes are wide for that, as, truly, they should be. There's only so ignorant he can be. But — 

He lets his smile turn rueful. "I'll always give you your privacy, daughter. As —" 

"As much as you can?" 

"That's right." 

"As much as you *want* to?" 

"I already know that pushing too hard that way makes you uncomfortable, daughter." 

"But it doesn't make everyone uncomfortable." 

"It depends on the person, the *other* person or people, the situation, the timing... there are all sorts of things that can change that. You're not strange." 

She studies him hard — 

"I promise." 

She *keeps* studying him — but then she nods, and looks down at her plate for a moment. "You should eat." 

"Daughter —" 

"You should eat... and let me think about what I want to say to you next," she says, and smiles at him ruefully. 

"Right you are," he says, and does just that. He eats a little more slowly than usual, just in case — 

He keeps her scents in his focus — thoughtful, not too jagged, *full* — 

And full of curiosity, care, need, burgeoning hunger —

Frustration and *worry*, not fear — 

Not *fear* — 

Want. And it's a kind of want he knows, he thinks. The scents *feel* familiar, from the moments just before he'd thrown himself into things with his loves, with his *pack*. 

From the moments when it *seemed* like everything he'd ever wanted was right at his fingertips, just beyond the tip of his *tongue*. When it *seemed* like all he had to do was be brave one more time, and everything would always be perfect, forever after. 

And that wasn't the case — forever isn't a thing most people can *have* — but damned if they hadn't had something perfect, something beautiful and perfect and so *sweet*. 

He'd like to give Constance sweetness. 

He'd like to give her... so much. 

He'd like to show her that the world isn't *always* a bastard. 

He'd like — 

"I don't..." 

Treville sets his fork down, dabs his mouth with his napkin, and sips his wine. "I'm listening, daughter." 

She smiles wryly, but with softness, too. She's toying with her napkin. "I don't know how to talk about... sex." 

Treville blinks — and then raises an eyebrow *slowly*. 

She snorts. "No, I mean — I don't know how to talk about it when it's what I *want*. As opposed to what I *should* want. Which is *nothing*." 

"I —" 

"And you disagree with that, I know you do — what does your goddess say about it?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "The All-Mother has been trying to fix me up with other likely, ripe females for ages now." 

"I." 

"Females — and not all of them are human, mind — who, with or without Her help, could give me many strong children. And thus give *Her* many strong children." 

"Um? What the bloody *hell* —" 

He holds up a hand. "*When* I checked in earlier, like the dutiful child of the All-Mother I am, She told me that She was happy that I was making new friends, that She was *thrilled* that I had opened my heart once more, that She was thrilled that I had finally broken the enchantments on my son, and that She expected all of us to come see Her soon." 

"How am I supposed to do *that*?" 

"Hold my hand when I'm opening myself to the All-Mother. She'll do the rest." 

"But — but — *Treville*!" 

"Be easy, daughter. She means you no harm. She just wants to know more about what you're about. She can't *see* you clearly, because you're not a mage, and She's *incredibly* curious about you." 

"What if she bloody *hates* me!" 

"Daughter. She likes *me*." 

Constance blinks — 

Licks her lips — 

And settles back against her chair. "Right, I — so you're saying She's open-minded." 

"That I am. Additionally, She doesn't think *all* sex should be for making babies, but She's the All-*Mother*. She *always*, *always* wants more children. And wants Her *children* to have more children. She made sure to tell me when *you* would be ripe." 

Constance *squawks* —

"But, as you can see, she doesn't *force* Her children into anything. If we don't want the people She picks for us, then She doesn't push." Treville grins. "Well, not more than any parent would, and much less than *most* parents would." 

Constance stares at him again. 

Treville waits her out. 

Eventually, she takes a deep breath and stands. "Let's go to *my* sitting room." 

"Yes?" 

"Or — are you done?" 

"Absolutely, daughter. I'd love to spend more time talking." 

She bites her lip and nods — and waits for him by the doorway. 

Treville *carefully* rests a hand at the small of her back —

She stiffens — 

Balls her hands into *fists* — 

"Daughter, my hand does *not* have to be here —" 

"I *want* it there," she says — *growls* — and that... was honest. 

So they wait out her stress and pain together — 

Wait while she breathes just like she's been taught — 

While she breathes herself down *perfectly*, relaxing all over — 

"My girl..." 

She smiles up at him.

He rubs a firm, gentle circle on her back and leads them out into the hall.


	9. Let's talk about sex.

In her sitting room, she leads *him* to the couch. 

There's just a bit more musk, and the doll she hadn't asked for, but which has hair and eyes *almost* like hers, has been given one of the chairs. 

He smiles at it as he sits — 

"It's *pretty*," she says, peevishly.

"That it is. I picked it up because it reminded me of you." 

She stares at him *affrontedly*. "Is that how you want me to *dress*?" 

Treville blinks. "No! Absolutely not. You'd never be able to fight in those clothes."

"Oh," she says, and visibly smooths those feathers. "I — I apologize." 

"You're forgiven. I can tell you've got a lot on your mind," Treville says, and sits back on the couch, giving her *plenty* of room. 

In response, she scowls and scoots *closer*. 

"Or you could do that," Treville says, and grins, sitting back up. 

"Do you not *want* me to —" 

"I always want you close. Your scents alone — mm. I *always* want you close." 

She looks at him — 

She smiles ruefully — 

She scoots *closer* — "I'd like — a hug." 

Treville rumbles and hugs her *immediately*, kissing her — definitely stepped-on — hair. 

"Oh — oh." 

"Mm?" 

She growls and hugs him back, hugs him *tight* — 

*Bruisingly* —

Treville rumbles and rocks her, holds her, *strokes* her — 

She *moans* — 

"All right...?" 

"Don't stop! Unless you want to!" 

"I *definitely* want to hold you for as long as possible," he says, and rumbles in her ear as he rocks her more — 

Strokes her *firmly* — 

She tries to get even closer — 

She makes a *frustrated* sound — 

He licks her cheek — 

"Oh!" 

"There are ways we could be closer, daughter, but I don't want you to feel —" 

"Worry about that *later*!" 

"Right you are," he says, and lifts her into a straddle of his lap, facing him. Those skirts would be hiding every *possible* sin — assuming any were being committed — but he *can* get her just a little closer — 

Hold her *tighter* — 

Rock her more slowly, more *rhythmically* — 

And she's quiet — silent, except for her breathing, which is hitching and fast. 

He waits. 

He *waits* — 

And she slows her breathing down on her own. She. 

She tucks her face in against his throat — 

She *squeezes* him with her *thighs* — 

Treville rumbles and rumbles and holds her, *keeps* her — "My wonderful girl..." 

"I don't know how to talk about sex," she says, again, low and breathy against his throat. "Could you... teach me how?" 

A part of him is only much younger, negotiating with a mouthy little lad in one of *those* houses. A boy who knows how to play the kinds of games that wind men around their little fingers. But — this isn't that. 

This isn't a game. 

Even with Constance's scents getting higher in his nose — 

Even with her body close and warm and getting *increasingly* pliant against his own — 

This isn't a game. 

She doesn't play games like that, and may never grow into the kind of woman who plays games like that. 

So — Treville puts the *man* who knows how to play games like that away, a bit, and he kisses her hair again — "I'll teach you." 

"It's just — I think it must be *better* to be able to talk about — to know how —" 

"It is, daughter. It *always* is." 

She relaxes that much more, sighing into him. 

Treville rumbles. 

"You really like this," she says, wonderingly. 

"I love it. Your body is soft and strong at once, your scents are all over me, your hair is on my skin..." Treville rumbles more. "It's perfect." 

"And... sexy?" 

The reflex to deflect that question is — wrong. "Yes. The position, the intimacy, the fact that we *could* be making love with very few steps intervening..." 

"My scents?" 

"Absolutely. We're both more aroused than we were." 

"Oh. Oh..." And she stiffens a little — 

*Starts* to draw back — stops. 

*Stops* — but. 

"Daughter. Don't force yourself into anything." 

"I *won't*. And I won't let — let my Da's *voice* in my head force me into anything, *either*," she says, and *shoves* her arms behind Treville's shoulders — 

Grips *tight* — 

"Tell me *more*." 

"You're so brave. You're so brave and beautiful and bloody *perfect*," Treville says and growls — 

"Is that. You're hard." 

"I am. We can move you a little —" 

"No, let me *feel*. Unless..." 

"Mm?" 

She pulls back to look him in the eye. "Will you lose control?" 

"No, daughter," Treville says, and grins. "Even when — *when* — you do arouse me that much, I'll still be able to put a lead on myself." 

She blushes. "Because — you're older?" 

"Because I'm not a *pillock*." 

She snorts *hard* — 

Treville grins more broadly, and strokes her lovely face. "I will admit that, when I was younger, I tended to put the brakes on things earlier than I do now if the other person wasn't certain they wanted to... ah... ride all night." 

"*Got* it," she says, nodding and grinning. 

"You're so *lovely*..." 

"I um. You have big hands. I mean, for a man your size." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "Did you want to feel them other places...?" 

She shivers. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you putting your hands on... on..." She *growls* — 

"Shh, daughter, it's all right —" 

"Tell *me* something *you* want! Tell me *two* things!" 

"Right you are. I want to nose up into your cunt and lick and suck and kiss and nibble and *lap* and *suckle* until we find just the right things to do to drive you wild and make you ride my *face*."

Constance *croaks* and *stares* — 

"And then? I want to turn you over and do the same thing to your puckered little arsehole." 

"*Fuck*!" 

"And *then* —" 

"Wait! I just said *two* things!" 

Treville licks his lips. "I really only counted that as one thing..." 

She snorts and moves one hand — swats him. 

"Perfect —" 

"You think everything I *do* is perfect!" 

"I have excellent taste —" 

"You..." 

"Mm?" 

She licks her lips and looks down. 

"Daughter?" 

Her breath hitches. "I think about you... touching my breasts. Holding them. *Gripping* them." 

Treville *pants*. "Is that so..." 

"Yes. I. I know it's not much —" 

"Shh, it's wonderful..." 

She looks up — and into him. She studies him. 

He leaves himself open — 

She bites her lip and nods — and then *stops* biting her lip. "*Why* is it wonderful." 

"It makes me think about *doing* it, daughter." 

She shivers — 

"It makes me wonder if you touch *yourself* that way." 

"Oh." 

"It makes me wonder if you'd ever let me *see* you touching yourself that way, ever let me *watch* you pleasuring yourself, showing me *how* to touch you..." Treville growls. "Just right." 

Her scents rise — 

Her thighs *flex* — 

She *whimpers* — and presses her soft lips against his. It's awkward, hard, *seeking*, but she lets Treville cup her face, lets him adjust things, soften them, dip between her lips and tease and lap and take, just a little — 

She groans — 

She *bounces* on his lap — 

She licks and licks and *licks* at his tongue — 

He slips it deeper, *fucks* her with it — 

She grunts and *bucks* against him — and then makes a harsh, *unhappy* sound and yanks herself back. 

Treville holds up his hands and licks his wet, sensitized lips. 

She licks her own — "I didn't mean to do that!" 

"It's all right, daughter, you were caught up in the heat of the moment —" 

"Not the *kiss*. *Stopping* the kiss!" 

Treville stops. 

Breathes — 

Breathes in *their* musk — wait, no, he needs to *think*. He gives himself a shake — 

"Oh — Treville?" 

"Daughter. Will you say no to me when you need to?"

"I — I don't want to say no when it's *stupid*!" 

"Do you understand that 'not yet' isn't the same as 'no' and that the *last* thing I want to do is make you think of making love to me and terrible things at the same time?" 

She scowls at him. 

Treville smiles wryly. "I want you forever, daughter. I will do *anything* to make that happen — including pinning my cock back for as long as it takes." 

"And. You're asking me to close my *legs* for as long as it takes." 

"That's right."

She ducks her head, but leaves her hands on his shoulders. She tugs, a little, at the leather of his tunic. 

"I love you, Constance." 

She licks her lips, and nods, but doesn't look up. "What happens if. If I don't want the touching to stop. The... hugs."

Treville shivers. "Would you like to share my bed tonight, daughter? I promise I'll hold you *all* night." 

"And that. That's all right?" 

"I promise it is." 

"Then.... then." She looks up at him again — into him. "Then leave me alone for a little while. I need to..." 

"Think?" 

"Yeah," she says. "And *touch* myself while thinking about *your* hands," she says, and *looks* at him. 

Treville's cock jerks *violently* — 

Constance blinks and blinks — and then *presses* down. 

Treville growls and *grips* her — and moves her.

"Oh — *Treville*!" 

"*I* am going to toss myself off *brutally* while thinking about spending on your cunt while you diddle yourself —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"And then cleaning my *mess* —" 

"Oh —" 

"And then making a *new* mess. And I will be *waiting* for you, daughter. So we can *talk* about some of the things hurting you —" 

"I. Treville..." 

"Mm?" 

"What if you can't... fix it? Fix me." 

Treville blinks and cups Constance's face, strokes her and turns her to face him. "We've all been broken inside by the lives we've lived, daughter. Some of us more than others, some of us less." 

"But —" 

"The *trick* is reaching a point where all our broken shards and pieces don't slice us to pieces every time we try to have a little joy and peace, mm?" 

"But if you can't *get* me there —" 

"It won't happen right away, and it won't be perfect. It won't be perfect even *years* down the road, and I'm *sorry* about that. But you're perfect in every other way, and who could need any more than *that*, mm?" 

"Treville..." 

"All right, you need more than that," Treville says, and leans in to kiss her forehead. "All I need? All any good person will need from you? Is that you don't *suffer* when you make love with them. A little pain here and there — well, it's part of the human condition, and there are all sorts of ways to alleviate that pain *while* making love, once you talk things through a lot more than we have. And I promise we'll talk through everything. I won't keep a damned *thing* back from you. 

"We'll find *every* way we *can* that *might* make things easier for you, and I *promise* it will be exactly what I want —" 

"Because... you want to take care of me," she says, and blushes. 

"Because I *love* you." 

She smiles with soft wryness again. "I'm your daughter." 

Treville's heart hurts. He pulls her close. 

He keeps her. 

He *keeps* her.


	10. Honesty is definitely the way to go here.

Treville laces his breeches *all* the way up before getting into bed, though he leaves his shirt loose. 

He knows the alternative would just look suspicious to his brilliant, wonderful daughter. 

He blows out all the candles except for the ones nearest the bed, and waits for his girl with a book of poetry he is absolutely not reading. 

It's one of his favourites, but — 

But she was in his arms tonight, and she's *going* to be in his arms again, and a part of him — let's call it his cock — has several ideas about how that should go. 

He sets the book down, sits up in bed, and scrubs his hands over his face. 

He misses his pack *exactly* like the lovers and kin they were. 

He misses their care, their touch — 

He misses their *wisdom* most of all in this moment, because he's already fucked things up a *few* times with Constance, and the stakes are just getting higher and higher. 

He can't fuck this up any more than he already has. 

He *has* to do this right. 

And that... well. 

She'll balk hard if he tries to *steer* her too hard, if he tries to insist she take things more slowly than she believes, in her heart, she *should*. 

At the same time, she's *not* an adult, and she's got a lot of nastiness in her head — not all of which Treville *knows* about — and if she tries to set her own pace...

If she tries to *bull* her way through this — pretty much *exactly* the way *he* would — then she's in danger of hurting herself worse. *With* him as the weapon. 

The thought is *every* kind of god-awful, and — 

Fuck, he wants his pack. 

He wants their *advice*. He wants to take them all aside, and then get them in a group so they can argue it out and come to a consensus and — 

And... well, all right, when they'd done things that way in the past, the results were pretty much always the same: 

One, be honest. 

Two, listen *closely* to the person with the problem. 

Three, *shut* it and listen. 

Four, do exactly what you would've already done, only more honestly, you *idiot*. 

Five, be prepared for things not to work out entirely right anyway, for some steps to need repeating and reworking, for things not to be perfect right away, you *arse*.

And that... 

That had worked out wonderfully for *them*, and he really needs to *try* it more with Jason, *and* it seems to be working well with Porthos — 

And. 

And there's one more piece of honesty he can give his beautiful daughter. One more... 

He'd *assumed* she wouldn't want his bite. He'd assumed that something that intimate would be *right* out for her. 

He'd — taken away her choice.

Treville winces *hard* — just in time for Constance to walk into his bedroom in her dressing gown and whatever's under it. Her hair is down for the night, she's barefoot, she's inexplicably holding a piece of parchment, and she is utterly lovely. He *fixes* his expression — 

She frowns — "What's wrong?" 

"I —" Not nothing. *Not* nothing. "I have just come to the realization that I've been treating you badly —" 

"I *wanted* the kiss!" 

"Not that, daughter," Treville says, raising one hand and throwing the covers back. He stands and moves closer. "I haven't been entirely honest with you about something *very* important." 

She steps back into the doorway — then firms her mouth into a hard line and *glares* up at him. "What." 

Treville winces again. "There's a way you can have my honesty — my *absolute* honesty — without doubt." 

"I —" 

"A magical way." 

She blinks. "But I can't..." 

"No, you can't. But I can. If I were to bite you, and break the skin..." And he pauses, helplessly — 

"Well? Keep going!" 

"Right you are. If I were to do that, and then lap the blood away, we would be bound by blood. It would be *similar* to what I have with Porthos. You would be able to feel my emotions, 'hear' my thoughts —" 

"And you'd be able to do that with *me*?" 

"I — yes. That's why I didn't offer it. That's why I didn't *think* to offer it. I *assumed* you wouldn't want it —" 

"You... were protecting me." 

"Yes — trying to. But I realize —" 

"That you have to give me a *choice* about whether to *be* protected that way?" 

Treville sighs and smiles ruefully. "That's just right, daughter. I — I don't want to run you over. I just want you to be happy, and comfortable, and warm, and *secure*." 

"And to... know you," she says, and licks her lips. 

"Yes." 

"Would you..." And she flushes deeply and looks away. 

Treville waits her out — 

She breathes faster — 

*Faster* — 

And then she turns back and *blazes* at him. "Are you going to use this to keep us from — from making love?" 

Treville blinks — 

Blinks more — 

"I... can honestly say that thought hadn't occurred to me." 

*Constance* blinks. "Not at all?" 

"No, daughter —" 

"Not even...?" 

"No," Treville says, and cups her face gently. "I was thinking about what my pack would've told me about how to go on with you, and it all boiled down to being honest, listening to you, being even more honest, and not expecting everything to work out absolutely perfectly on the first run." 

"I... *they* were all bound to you." 

"No," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "Amina and I had the instincts to do it — our dogs were constantly *telling* us to do it — but we were cautious. Too cautious — and too ignorant. The rituals that turned us into shifters were designed to bypass the All-Mother as much as possible, and so we tended to exist and use our powers 'stealthily'. She knew about us all along — She could *feel* us — but the way we were using our power meant She couldn't touch us or speak to us or *teach* us, and *that* meant we didn't know we could bind our pack safely. Or. Or keep ourselves safe." 

Constance winces. "I'm sorry." 

"Thank you, but —" 

"No *buts*. I don't think you've *grieved* enough. Or — have you?" 

Treville knows his smile is crooked. "Probably not." 

Constance nods. "You just told me that you could've been even closer to — to the loves of your lives, and you didn't find that out until they were all *gone*." 

"That's right —" 

"And I'll know all that? And everything it means to you? If you bite me?" 

Treville grunts. "That — you shouldn't —" 

"Answer me!" 

"*Yes*, daughter. I won't hide from you. You'll be able to feel me do it. One hard smack and I'll be —" 

"Then *do* it, because if we see everything about each other — and you don't just want to — to put me in a little box —" 

"Bloody never!" 

"You *have* to know it would make things easier for me, Treville!" And she's *pleading* into his eyes. 

She's.... "Oh, daughter," he says, and lengthens his teeth. "Where do you want your scar? I'll keep it as small as possible." 

She stares at his mouth and *pants*.

He strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. "It's all right," he says, slurring only a little. He's had practice. "The scar will look — and feel — old immediately. It won't interfere with your training." 

"Oh..." And then she steps back and lifts the dressing gown *and* her nightgown, and her legs are bare, and her scents are — 

Are — 

Treville growls and drops to his knees. 

"Treville —" 

"You smell incredible, daughter," he says, and flares his nostrils over and over again. "Tell me where." 

"Right — right on my thigh..." 

"The side...?" 

Constance licks her lips and stares into his eyes. "The front. I want. I want it to be easy to touch when I'm sitting down." 

Treville snarls and licks her, right where he'll bite — 

"Oh —" 

Licks and licks and *licks*, hair tickling his tongue — 

"Please — please don't *wait*!" 

And then he *grips* her thigh, turns his head, and *bites*, shallowly but thoroughly —

"Nnh — oh — *oh* —" 

He takes her *blood*, so rich, so healthy, so sweet and metal and — 

And her hand is in his hair — 

*Shaking* in his hair as he laps and laps — 

Shaking and stroking — petting him, *petting* him, and Treville licks the wound closed, nuzzles the new scar, kisses it — 

She *moans* —

Her scents are so *high* — 

And he can reach for her. 

(What what WHAT ARE YOU DOING?) And she pulls *back* — 

Treville releases her immediately, and looks up into her eyes. Sharing myself with you. Showing you how to find my soul with your own. 

(Soul — our souls are we're connected am I damned?)

Our souls are connected, and damnation is a tricky concept when the gods can't even agree on what and who is worth it. What we call 'Hell' are really other spheres — other *earths* — where other children of the All-Mother, and other gods and goddesses entirely, as well as other species of plants and animals and et cetera which *aren't* the children of any deities live. Sometimes, we call those people demons. 

(Um.) 

To be fair, many of them don't think too kindly of us, either. 

(Would they if we didn't call them *demons*?)

*Some* of them would, and good job on getting your emotions under control. 

(Is that — that's why you were suddenly lecturing me. To help me.) 

Treville winks. "My girl always responds well to teaching." 

"Oh — your voice!" 

"Mm?" 

She — sadly — lets her gown and dressing gown fall and touches her chest with the hand she's *not* holding the still-unexplained piece of parchment with. "It felt like..." 

"Like you could feel what I was saying as well as hearing it?" 

She licks her lips and nods. "Your... your *pride*..." 

"I'm proud of you every minute of every day." 

She smiles wryly down at him. "Even when you're hard for me and I do things like cover myself *up* again?" 

"Even then, daughter. You're doing what you *need* to do." 

"But I'm not *sure* what I need to do. All I know is what I *want*." 

"Well, let's work on that. Our connection will help," Treville says, standing and reaching for her hand. 

"Oh. I felt — I felt all of that." 

Treville hums. "My honesty?" 

"Yes!" And she grins at him and gives him the parchment. 

"Mm?" 

"Read it!" 

"All right —" 

"It's not — it's not *good*, and it isn't — just read it!" 

Ohh... Treville looks at the parchment immediately — 

"Do you need more light? Is it bright enough?" 

"I can see everything," he says, and his voice is — rough. A little choked. 

"Oh," she says. And she sounds so worried, so — 

"Oh, daughter, no, I —" He looks up from scanning the words 'Thank you for bringing me home, sir. I promise to always be a very good daughter to you.' over and over and *over* again — 

He looks up into her worried *eyes* — 

And his eyes are *wet* — 

"Oh, no, what's wrong? Is it — is it *bad*?" 

"It's *beautiful*, daughter. I've never had anything *like* this. I — may I hug you?" 

She bites her lip — and *throws* off the dressing gown — 

He blinks —

"Let's get in *bed*. I want hugs while we're *talking*." 

"Right you are —"

"Also, I *know* you don't sleep with your breeches all tight like that."

"I..." 

She smiles at him gently — and her own eyes are just a little damp. 

But he can feel that she doesn't quite want to talk about this. 

(Not — not yet —) "Maybe you were trying to teach your cock a little discipline?" 

"That is *exactly* what I was trying — and indifferently succeeding — to do," he says, wiping his eyes with his free hand and setting the parchment right on his bureau so he can look at it and stroke it every day. 

She giggles. "Aren't men your age supposed to be *less*, you know, *randy*?" 

Treville grins, tips the hat he isn't wearing — 

She *snorts* — 

Treville leads her to her side of the bed and doesn't watch her sweet, round arse *overmuch* while she's crawling in — 

"I caught that!" 

"I blame... hm... I..." 

"*Yes*...?" 

"Being young at heart...?" 

She snorts *again* — 

And Treville grins and moves back around to his side of the bed, climbing in and urging her close — 

"Ooh, yes — *yes*," she says, and scoots right in — 

Presses herself *tight* against him — 

Punches him repeatedly as she tries to figure out what to do with her *arms* —

Treville laughs softly and gets them up around his neck — there. 

"But I want to *touch* you!" 

"Let's wait on that just a *little* bit, mm?" 

She gives him a *murderous* look. 

"Just a little bit, for now, daughter. Remember we said we were going to talk?" And he squeezes her hips. 

She searches him — 

Pauses — 

She reaches for him where their *souls* touch — 

"Good, that's good, daughter. Now ask what you want to know." 

"Do you want to make love tonight?" 

"I *crave* it. I never completely softened after I tossed myself off." 

"I." 

"Mm?" 

"*What* would make you stop us?"

Treville considers that carefully — 

"Tell me!" 

"Easy now, daughter — I don't even *remotely* want to give you the wrong answer, here. Or even a *partially* wrong answer. This is one of the things we have to *talk* about, and decide between the two of us." 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"That's right. There's a lot you don't know, and a lot you don't *fully* understand, but you're no infant, and I'm not going to treat you like one. We're in this bed *together*, daughter." 

She licks her lips and stares at him with wide eyes. "I — yes, Treville." 

And that... Treville frowns. "There was something not entirely honest in that." 

"I — I hardly said anything!" 

"I know, and that's the strange thing. Are you not comfortable using my name, daughter?" 

She blushes hard and — doesn't look down. 

Doesn't turn away. 

She just blushes harder and harder and — starts thinking about all the things a girl *can* call her father. 

All the things... 

All the things a girl *should* call her father. 

Treville whuffs out a breath and squeezes her tight — 

"Do you like that? No — I *feel* that you do. Which one is best? Which one feels right —" 

"The one — or more than one — that feels right to *you*, daughter," Treville says, and his voice is low, rough — hungry — 

Constance pants — "It arouses you that I think of you that way." 

"Yes. It — I always gave my young boys parenting, if they'd take it from me. I *tried* to give the adults I was with parenting. I *did* give it to them — when they'd sit still for it." 

Constance shivers. "That's what you like best." 

"Yes, daughter. But you never —" 

"Daddy." 

Treville growls. "Daughter..." 

"I can't... I can't call you something that sounds too much like — um. What I called *him*. And I know I have to call you 'sir' or 'Father' in public, which is *fine*, but..." 

"You wanted something... for us," Treville says, and — growls again — 

Constance stares up into his eyes. "Is that... all right?" 

"It's perfect. It's beautiful. I *love* you, daughter —" 

"You're — more aroused than you were." 

"I'm thinking about you calling me 'Daddy' while we make love, daughter." 

"Oh — why can't I see those thoughts!" 

"I'm holding them back — don't smack me, *yet*. We still have some talking to do." 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Fuck, that's wonderful," Treville says, and licks her left cheek — 

And her right cheek — 

And her mouth — 

She moans and licks him *back* — 

"My girl. My beautiful girl. Let's talk about where we put the brakes on." 

"I don't *want* to —" 

He *grips* her hip — 

"*Nnh* —" 

"It's part of being ready to make love, daughter. I promise." 

She touches his soul with hers — "Oh. Yes, Daddy." 

"My girl. My..." Treville growls. "It is a *privilege* just to be here, like this, with you. It's a privilege to have your scents in my nose, and to know you're leaving your scents in this *bed*." 

"*Oh* —" 

"I *love* you —" 

"Oh — *Daddy*," she says, and smiles up at him, flushed and happy and *aroused* — 

"My *girl*. Right, here it is: Being connected like this will let me *see* and *feel* when your thoughts take you terrible places." 

She opens her mouth — 

"Just wait a moment, daughter." 

She frowns and nods.

"I *don't* intend to put the brakes on every time you have a negative thought, or every other time, or anything like that. We *both* know you can fight through *most* of those thoughts at this point." 

"Yes!" 

"However, like I said, the bond between us will let me see those thoughts, and feel what they make *you* feel without you having to tell me a damned thing —" 

"Oh. You... you want to help me with them." 

"That's right." 

"While... we're making love?" 

He caresses her hip. "I think we'll have some fits and starts, at first. You're not used to anyone seeing that, and I'm not used to seeing that side of *you*. But I also think we're both pretty damned good at improvising when it comes to getting what we *want*." 

She smiles shyly. "And you want me." 

"Right from the beginning, daughter." 

"And you want — you want to fight for me. You want to *help* me fight for me." 

Treville reaches up to stroke her cheek, and her mouth. "All my best loves have warred at my side, in one way or another." 

She shivers and grins and *kisses* his fingers — 

"Oh, daughter..." 

"Daddy..." 

"Tell me. Tell me everything."

"When I was um. Diddling myself..." 

Treville rumbles. "Yes?" 

"I was thinking about you touching me all over, using your big hands on me everywhere —" And she cuts herself off and pants — 

Not in the best way. 

There's a man of average height with Constance's eyes, a mean sneer, and a drunken stagger sharing space in their minds, and he's talking about girls who say too much about what they mean, and what they make men — all men — think. 

Treville growls low and flat to pull Constance's attention away from that, pull it back until she's watching it like a play, and then he has the clowns come on to beat the man to the raucous applause and laughter of the audience while he runs this way and that — and eventually off-stage. 

"Um." 

"How was that?" 

She *looks* at him.

Treville licks his lips. "Too much?" 

"I've never even *seen* a play!"

"Well, we can fix that —" 

"And — wait. Are they *like* that?" 

"Usually less violent. Usually." 

She snorts hard. "*Daddy*." 

"Do that often, please —" 

She swats him — 

"And that —" 

"I..." 

"Mm?" And he licks her mouth again. 

"Oh... mm," she says, and licks him back. 

"My good girl. What did you want to tell me about that method?" 

"Just — it *is* too much. I *like* what you were trying to do, and you definitely should do it at other times, you know, when we're *not* about to make love, but... maybe something less complicated?" 

Treville strokes her cheek. "Absolutely, daughter. How are you now?" 

"Good!" 

"Then tell me more about my big hands, mm?" 

"Oh... but." She grins and flushes. "I think about you *talking* to me, Daddy. I think about... you're always so dirty and respectful at the same *time*. I can never really duplicate it in my mind, but the feel of it..." And she touches his soul — 

And fills him with warmth — and heat. 

Treville rumbles. "I always will. I *always* will," he says, and strokes down over her shoulder, her arm — 

He grips her strong biceps through her nightgown — 

He leans in and licks her mouth twice — 

Again — 

*Again* — 

She moans and slurs out "Daddy..." 

He growls low. "I want to touch your skin again, daughter. I want to run my hands all over your body until you know my calluses with every *part* of you —" 

She *grunts* — "Daddy, please, more!"

He licks a long stripe from the corner of her mouth to her ear — 

Dips in once — 

"I want to cup your beautiful arse in my hands and squeeze. I want to lift it in my hands until you're arched right up into the perfect position for me to *devour* your cunt —" 

"Hnh —" 

"And I'd hold you there. I'd eventually move my hands to your nice, round hips so you couldn't move too much —" 

And they're both hit by images and memories of that *arsehole*, saying something awful about how his daughter is asking to be raped. 

Well, then, keep it simple: Treville tugs his perfect girl away from the memory — and tugs the memory away from *her*. 

She *grunts* — 

Jerks back — 

"What — what did you —" 

Treville smiles wryly. "Plucked a thorn, daughter." 

"I can't — I *know* there was... something..." 

"And if you keep worrying at that 'something' you'll get it back. But it will be much more vague and less powerful than it was before." 

She stares at him.

He licks his lips. "Too... much...?" 

She punches him. *Hard*.

"Right, I'll just — well, I can't put it back —" 

She growls — 

"— but I can help you *get* as much of it back as it's possible to —" 

"Bloody *how*!" 

"You were thinking about your father haranguing you —" 

"Obviously!" 

"About rape. About things girls do to "get themselves" raped, which is a load of *shite* —" 

She flinches — 

"Oh, daughter — oh, daughter, I'm so —" 

"No — no, it's. I can see it now. Dimly," she says, quietly. "I can see — it was all well and good until you started talking about holding me still," she says, and smiles ruefully. "That was — he liked to get detailed sometimes. About what the rapes would be like." 

Treville *snarls* — 

She lowers her head. "Maybe... maybe you *should* just pluck the memories out," she says, while everything inside her is screaming 'they're MINE, don't TOUCH them, YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!' 

Treville clears his throat. Gently. 

Constance laughs softly. "I think I'll try again," she says, and looks up. 

"At your own pace, daughter." 

"If you... if you can make the memories less *intense*, the way you did before, when you were making it into a play..." 

"Without the rigmarole *of* a play?" 

"*Yes*. I mean — fuck, I feel so *stupid*. This was so much easier before. *Why* was this so much easier before?" And she gives him a pleading look. 

"Because I hadn't given you any time to think, daughter. We'd snuck past... so much of your pain. But remember, the further we went, the more rapidly the trouble-spots were hitting you." 

She frowns dejectedly. 

"Oh, no, daughter, don't take that as a criticism or — anything like that. Remember, it's not going to be perfect right away. We're still learning what works and what doesn't —" 

"What if *nothing* works?" 

"Then I'll wait for you, daughter, because time and *care* always work. *We're* trying to take a shortcut." 

She blinks.

"Mm?" 

"I... hadn't thought about it that way..." 

Treville grins. "My gorgeous girl *never* takes the easy way out of anything, I know, but her *Daddy* occasionally tries to play fast and loose." 

She smiles shyly. "I like it when you play with me." 

"I love playing with you, daughter. You've given me so much *joy* since you've come to me... mm. Let's try making the memories a little less... vivid." 

"Yes, Daddy."

"Do you want to go back to what we were talking about before, or...?" 

"I want..." And she licks her lips. "I want a kiss. Please. Please, Daddy." 

Treville rumbles and tilts her chin up — 

Licks her all over her face — 

"Oh — *Daddy* —" 

"The more aroused I get, the more licks you'll get instead of kisses. *Not* because I like them better, but because the dog in me makes more demands." 

"*Oh*. Do you not — do you need —" 

"We have a little time," he says, and grins. "Now that I've placated my dog with your scents and flavours." 

Constance snickers and *pecks* him — 

He pecks her *back* — 

She licks *across* his mouth — 

"Good girl," he slurs, and slips his tongue *in* — 

"*Mm* —" 

Pushes a hand into her hair — 

Grips her gently but *firmly* — 

She moans right *into* him and teases his tongue, licks it, *urges* it — 

Treville nods and fucks her with it, sliding it in slow and just a little rough, just a little *dirty* — 

Her mouth falls open and she *pants* against him — 

Close your mouth, daughter... 

She groans and *immediately* closes it, sucking *hard* on his tongue and making fucking her with it much more wonderfully challenging. 

He gives it to her faster, slick and *hot* — 

He *tugs* her hair and strokes through it, pets her, strokes down her back to her arse — 

She tries to press *closer* —

He *pulls* her closer — and that *arsehole* pops up in their minds — 

But she slams a door in his face. 

Alaire's behind it with him. 

Alaire might have been *armed* — 

(Keep kissing!)

Right you are, Treville says, and rolls Constance on top of himself so he can touch her with both hands, *have* her with both hands — 

She whimpers — 

Squeezes him with her long, strong thighs — 

*Rolls* her body against Treville's hard *cock* — 

Treville growls into her mouth and kisses her harder, pulls her in — 

Grips her hips and pulls her *in* — 

And the arsehole is back, telling her she'll be no good to anyone if she isn't a virgin. Treville holds his girl — and pulls her spirit away from the memory, away from everything *about* that memory until it's nice and faded and vague in her mind. 

And he can't stop himself from adding in a point or two about just how much fucking the noblewomen he knows do — and did — whether or not they were married to the person or persons in question. 

Constance bites his lip. 

Treville *grunts* — "Was that a no?" 

"It was a — a — wait, you *weren't* talking about your pack. Were you." 

"Absolutely not. Amina wasn't a noblewoman, and Marie-Angelique was a virgin when she married Laurent." 

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

"Do that. Do exactly that. When you're helping me," she says, and grins. 

*He* grins. "With the helpful lessons?" 

"Yes — so long as it's brief!" 

"Right you are —" 

"Can I...." 

"Yes." 

She giggles hard. 

Treville pets her. "What would my beautiful girl like, mm?" 

She licks her lips and kneels up, looking down between them. "I want to see your cock." 

"Are you —" 

"I'm sure. I want to... rub on it." 

Treville takes a *breath* — 

"I want to rub on it with my cunt."

Treville *coughs* — 

"No?" 

"I..." 

"Is that *weird*?" 

"It is *not*. I just haven't done it in a *long* time," Treville says, giving himself a shake and grinning. 

"Are you sure it's all *right*?" 

"I'm sure. It's going to feel fantastic for *me*, and if you don't like it, we can try something else." 

"Oh. Do women not like it?" 

"I've only tried it with two women. Amina loved it; Marie-Angelique got impatient with it. Asking around with Kitos and Reynard, who'd tried it with several other women... well, it was a mix for them, too." 

Constance nods thoughtfully for a moment — and then tugs off her nightgown without any further hesitation. 

She's nude beneath it, and — 

And the hair under her arms is long and richly-brown, curling and lighter at the tips — 

And her breasts are firm and tipped upward and outward, tipped in *wine* — 

And the hair at her cunt is darker, curlier than the hair on her head — 

And she's looking at him with fire, so much *fire*, and all Treville can do is growl and sit up and pull her close, hold her *close* — 

"I *love* you!" 

"Daddy —"

"Don't — don't ever *leave*!" 

She gasps and stares at him — 

She could feel that, feel that all through her, and some god somewhere help him, there is no part of his *self* that he doesn't want to fuck her with. His words. His soul. His *mind* — 

"Daddy — Daddy, please, open your *breeches*!" 

He growls and bites her *throat* — 

"HNH —" She *bucks* — 

He cups her downy arse and squeezes, *squeezes* — 

And *then* he releases her, pushes her back, lies back himself and opens his breeches at speed, arches up and shoves them down, down, out of the *way* — 

She *gasps* — 

She *helps* with the breeches — 

And she reaches for his cock — slowly. With wide eyes. 

And *then* Treville remembers. 

"I... shifters have marks, daughter." 

"Um... what?" 

"When a shifter is an earth mage, they have a *sign* of their true animal nature on or in their genitals at all times," he says, and smiles ruefully. 

She prods his cock. 

It jerks for her. Messily. 

She licks her lips and prods it again. 

It jerks obligingly. Twice. 

"You're doing that on purpose!" 

"No, that would look like —" And he flexes his cock. Three times. 

She splutters. "You got it all over me!" 

Treville grins. "We *could* work on... localizing the mess?" 

She gasps again — and reaches between her legs, just like that. 

Treville pants. "You're wet to the thighs. You're... fuck, you're incredible..." 

"You make me *randy*, Daddy —" 

"I'm certainly trying —" 

She giggles hard and shuffles up into a straddle of him again, pushing Treville's cock flat to his belly and pressing herself — down. 

*Treville* flushes and grunts — "Daughter..." 

"You like that?" 

"It's wonderful. How do *you* feel about it?" 

"I think I want..." And she screws her face up in concentration and rocks her hips back and forth and back and forth and —

She *groans* — 

Treville *croons* — 

She drops her hands to his shoulders and keeps — 

Keeps *rocking* — 

She's so soft, so soft and *wet* — 

He can feel every — 

Every *fold* — 

She whimpers — 

She gets even *wetter* — 

Rocks *faster* — 

"*Daughter* — " 

"Daddy — Daddy, don't make me *stop*!" 

"No — no — *fuck*," he says, gripping her hips and *riding* the motion she chooses, trying to keep his *control* — 

"*Yes*! Hold me tighter!" 

He growls and *grips* — 

He won't *stop* her — 

She cries out and *shoves* against him — 

Bounces — 

Bounces on his *knot* — 

Treville *yips*, cock *spitting* slick — 

She grunts and bounces over and *over* again — 

Treville barks and holds her, holds her tighter — 

He must be *bruising* — 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"Do you *like* it!" 

"Show me *how*!" 

"*Daughter* —" He growls and grinds her down, grinds her and grinds her the way Amina had *loved* — 

She *screams* — 

She bounces and writhes in his *hands* — 

He makes her grind *more* — 

She sobs and — fuck, fuck, *spurts* — 

"Oh, daughter, my perfect *daughter*," Treville says, and keeps *grinding*, keeps — he makes her *take* — 

She croaks out a yell and *claws* his shoulders — 

"Good *girl* —" 

"Daddy, yes — *yes*," she says, and she's smiling, she's smiling so brightly, and her cheeks are wet, and Treville — 

Treville has to. 

He rolls them until she's on her back and licks her face, licks her all over her face and throat — 

Kisses her as much as he *can* before he has to start licking her again — 

She's *giggling* — 

"That was *perfect*, daughter, that was —" He rumbles and licks his way down her chest to her belly — 

The scents down here are mingled, fresh, *theirs* — 

He *wants* — 

"Oh... Daddy..."

He looks *up*. 

She's looking at him with narrowed and *wicked* eyes, and it *is* a dare — but. 

He pauses himself. 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Wait, daughter. Are you *ready* for more," he says, and raises his eyebrows.

"And.... you want me to think about that." 

"That's right." 

She licks her lips and obviously considers. "I feel... part of me feels like I'm floating above the bed just from what you did with my *memories*, Daddy. The rest of me is on the *ceiling*." 

"You might need some talking-down later..." 

"That makes sense."

"Right, then —" 

"And that *isn't* now," she says, and looks at him *hard*. 

Treville growls. "One more question, then." 

"I'm listening." 

"I like to shift when I eat *anyone* out — just a little. Just my *tongue*," he says, and lolls it for a moment before putting it away again. "How do you feel about that?" 

Her jaw drops — 

She goggles for a moment —

And then she snickers and kicks him. 

"*Oof*. Is that... a....?" 

"Shove your giant tongue up my cunt! See if I care!" 

"Right you are."


	11. What happened.

He licks her clean *first*, of course — tasting both of them. *Savouring* both of them, and it takes no time, at all, for her to start rocking her cunt up against his face. 

Which — 

That's perfect, daughter. Keep that *up*. 

"Ngh — fuck — aren't I — aren't I hurting your *nose*?" 

I can take a *lot* of punishment, daughter, and nuzzles in right where she seems to — 

"Oh — oh, *yeah* —" 

She grinds — 

She *groans* — 

She grinds *more*, *right* on the bridge of his nose — 

*Good* girl... 

"Fuck — oh, *fuck*, Daddy —" 

Mmm? And Treville sucks a kiss right there, just to the left of her pleasure-button — 

She *caws* — 

Kicks *out* — 

"Do that *again*!" 

Like this? And he kisses her exactly the same way he had before — 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

Or like this, he says, and gives her a harder suck, a wetter *lick* — 

She bucks *hard* — "Daddy!" 

Yes...? 

"I *am* going to break your nose!" 

But will you be doing it because you're *enjoying* yourself — 

"You know I will!" 

Treville rumbles — 

"*Fuck*!" 

Is that so... 

"Do — do *that*! And kiss! And lick! And — *fuck*," she says, and starts riding his face again, which is perfect, wonderful — 

*Exactly right* — 

"D-Daddy!" 

He rumbles low and hard, he kisses and rumbles, sucks and suckles — 

"Yes! *YES*!" 

My *girl* — 

"UNH —" And she *slams* her cunt against his face — 

She does it *again* — 

*Again* — 

That's my *girl*, he says, and wraps his arms around her thighs, holds her steady and anything *but* still — 

"Please!" 

Please what, mm? And he sucks another *rough* kiss — 

She *keens* — 

She's so *wet* — 

He growls and kisses again and *again* — 

"HNGH —" And she's riding him fast, *fast* — 

She's losing *control* — 

The touch of her mind is chaotic, wild, and there *are* moments and images of that arsehole in there, but she doesn't even have to shove them aside before images of what she wants — thinks she wants? — shove them aside themselves. 

His tongue plays heavily, but so do his fingers and cock. 

He hums nice and *loud* and thoughtfully — 

She *screams* — and spurts, all over his *face*. 

Good *girl*, he says, and kisses her more, sucks hard, licks her, licks her sweeter juices away, still tangy, but fresher, happier — 

He licks her helplessly — 

He *needs* — 

He shoves his tongue *deep* — 

She shrieks and *bucks* and *clenches* — 

Clenches over and over — 

Practically *ripples* around his tongue, and Treville is going to go with the idea that she likes this right up until she tells him different — 

She squawks and gasps and giggles hard — 

Gasps more and *giggles* more — 

Moans and tries to spread her legs *wider* — 

Treville helps. Entirely altruistically. 

Constance makes a noise like a compressed goose — 

*Squawks* again, perhaps for that comment — and yes, here come the slaps and swats. 

Treville smiles meanly. Dearest daughter, did you want me to stop...?

She sits up, grips him by the hair, and *grinds* his face into her cunt. 

Please do this often. 

"Oooh... I. Um. Oooh..." 

Yes?

She *moves* his head — 

Heedless of how it sits on his neck —

"Stop whining — ohh. *Oh*!" 

Right you are. Did my nose hit something wonderful? 

"Just — mm. Just..." And then she makes him shake his head, slowly, while continuing to crush him against her.

Treville decides to lap while he's *there* — 

"Glrk — not that!" 

Right you are. He puts his tongue away. 

"It's just — that made me think I was going to *piss*!" 

We probably shouldn't do that *on* the bed, no — 

"Bloody *hell*!" 

Mm? 

"You *meant* that! You meant — and you'd *enjoy* it!" 

I *am* a dog, he says, and hums through his nose — 

"YES!" 

Treville grins and loses the hum for a moment — 

"Don't stop!" 

He starts the humming *right* up again —

She keeps moving his head for him — 

A little faster now —

Grinding and *shoving* her cunt against him — 

As an aside, he says, and tries his best to hum louder — 

"Y-yes, Daddy?" 

As an aside, I'm not going to wash my beard and moustache very thoroughly, at *all*, after this.

"What — *fuck* —" 

I'm taking you *everywhere* with me tomorrow..." 

"Daddy — *Daddy*!" 

Anytime something or someone tries to ruin my day...? I'll just breathe *deep*. 

She groans — 

*Yanks* his hair and then *immediately* puts him right back where she wants him — 

And the dreams in her mind are all about rubbing her face all over his cock, rubbing his slick into her *skin* — 

He *growls* — 

"No, Daddy?" 

*Yes*. Whenever you'd *like*. 

She moans deeply — 

*Sweetly* — 

"Um." And she pushes him away.

"Daughter?" And Treville licks his lips and most of his face. 

"Oh — fuck. How did your women ever *stop* sitting on your face?" 

Treville laughs like an arsehole — 

"Oh, wait, I know, they needed time to *punch* you!" 

"That they did —" 

"I want..." 

"Mm...?" 

She smiles ruefully. "It's still hard to talk about." 

"Maybe harder now that you've... wound down a little?" 

"Oh — yes! I didn't even think about the fact that I *was* doing that, that I was... um. Basking. With your face." 

Treville laughs hard — 

Constance blushes — 

Treville kneels *up*, releasing her thighs — and then bows and flourishes. 

"Oh — *Daddy*!" 

"Musketeers live to be of service to people in need —" 

"You *arse* —" 

"As an example," he says, and cups the back of her head with one hand and her strong biceps with the other — 

"Oh —" 

"As an example," he says again, and tugs lightly, "several of the images in your mind suggested being closer to me might improve your night..." 

"Improve — you've made me spend twice!" 

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that... your limit?" 

"No!" 

"All right, then," he says, and tugs again — 

"I — no," she says, and pulls back. 

"Right you are," Treville says, and rests his hands on his thighs.

She looks down at his cock and winces — "I'm sorry — I don't want —" 

"Wait, daughter. Are you about to apologize for... making me wait? Or something similar?" 

"I — you have things you want to *do*!" 

"I absolutely do —" 

"Right, and —" 

"First and foremost? I want to find out what *you* want to do, and not do, and talk about doing. Negotiation is a *vital* part of healthy relationships, daughter." 

She frowns at him like he's speaking Swedish. 

"I *promise*." 

"Do men and women — but you don't know." 

He smiles ruefully. "I'm afraid not. But I know that my pack and I had a *lot* of wonderful sex — and got to *know* each other a lot better — by this method." 

She nods slowly. "I *do* know you better than I did earlier." 

"That you do — and I know *you* better." 

She blushes —

*Starts* to lift her arms to cover herself — and very visibly stops that. 

*Fights* that. 

The arsehole pops up in her thoughts — 

Treville *starts* to tug her away from him — and then stops, because she's beating him to a bloody pulp with an iron skillet. 

The *first* blow knocks him out cold, and even if he hadn't already known she'd done things like this to the man before, the ease and practice of her swings would tell the story. 

But — she doesn't stop. 

Not even once the man's head is a bloody smear. 

Not even once his hands are unrecognizable meat. 

Not....

Treville steps into the dream and waits, patiently, while she pulps the dead man between the legs. 

It's best never to get between a woman and that sort of work — 

Constance gasps and squawks again — 

Strikes down with the skillet once more — 

Drops the skillet and steps back and back until she hits the wall of the tiny bedroom and moans. 

Treville covers the corpse in illusory vines and roots which drink all the blood — 

"What — what?" 

"Shh. It's all right. Just keeping that ghost still, for now," he says, and pulls all the blood off her body to feed to the hungry roots — 

"Oh —" 

And then he looks around the bedroom. 

The cross is directly over the narrow bed, but it may be there to stare accusingly at whoever lingers in the doorway — 

"That's — exactly it," Constance says and scrubs at her clean arms with her hands. 

"Oh — daughter. May I touch you?" 

She moans again. "I didn't do it. I didn't kill him." 

"I know —" 

"Not like that." 

Treville blinks — 

Stares — no. 

He *looks* at the room, at everything neatly in its place — almost *regimentally* so — which. 

Which makes the pillow on the bed being askew that much more... troubling. He moves to it, and flips it over — 

No blood, but just a little bit of drool. 

And too much grime for his neat little girl. He nods. "You waited until he was paralytically drunk, and then you smothered him." 

She makes a small, sick noise. 

He drops the pillow and moves back into her space, cupping her shoulders — 

She flinches — 

"Don't do that, daughter. You're my girl; I'm never going to hurt you." 

"But — Daddy..." 

"He spent your life hurting you and your mother — where was she?" 

She shakes her head. "He said she ran off. But." 

"She never would've done that." 

"*No*." 

"And maybe he started drinking even more after that." 

"Yes — yes, Daddy —" 

"And spending more time lurking in your doorway?" 

She sobs — "I can't — I just can't —"

"You knew that, one day, you wouldn't be able to stop him. He'd be a little too quick, or you'd be a little too unlucky." 

She groans sickly. 

"You weren't sleeping nights." 

"I —" 

"You were working yourself to the bone just to feed the both of you and you weren't sleeping nights and that *fucking* *monster* was waiting for his chance to put his hands on you." 

"*Yes*!" 

Treville nods. "Now, then, daughter. *Why* do you think you did anything wrong?" 

She stares at him wildly — 

He holds her gaze, squeezing her shoulders a little more firmly. "Understand this, daughter: You had no choice. I *applaud* you killing that monster, and I *still* sincerely wish I might have done it for you."

She shivers hard and turns *away* — 

"All right, not that. Or — not all of that. I can feel, now, that you want me as far away from that monster as you can get me, and that makes every kind of sense —" 

"Does it." 

"It does, daughter. You deserve... so much better than anything in this house. And I *will* give it to you. *Every* day." 

She *ducks* her head — 

He can see her expression *crumpling* — "Daughter —" 

"I wish. I wish I could stop coming *back* here." 

Treville pulls her into his arms and squeezes *tight* — 

She makes a soft sound — 

He brings them back to his bed — their bed. *Their* bed — 

And she *grips* at the sheets and takes deep gulps of air before pushing close again, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding *on* — 

He strokes her and rocks her. "I'll tell you why you keep going back there, and maybe it will help you stop someday, if we're lucky." 

"Oh — *why*?" 

Treville licks her cheek. "Because you're a good, warm, loving person who hates to hurt people who don't deserve it. You'll protect the weak and whoever *needs* a protector — protect them like a mama bear with her cubs! But you won't just go around brutalizing people for the sheer bloody hell of it. You're not an arsehole. You're not a *bully*. We can agree that far, right?" 

"Yes..." 

"You're not so sure about being a good person, maybe?" 

"I — I killed my *father*!" 

"Let's try this a different way," he says, and licks her cheek again. "A drunken arsehole who hurts his wife — hurts her enough to have her completely cowed and unable to protect her small, young daughter from the father's advances — " 

"I'm not —" 

"Just wait a moment, daughter." 

She's stiff in his arms, but she nods. 

"Thank you. The wife disappears. It's painfully obvious that the arsehole is responsible, especially since everything he does makes him look guiltier — including the fact that he goes after his young, small, helpless daughter even more often than he used to —" 

"I'm *not*." 

"No, you're not. You're a big, strong girl — and you'd *never* let the *little* girl in that *other* house suffer." 

She jerks *back* — 

"Not to mention all the other little girls the drunken arsehole went after when he was out carousing. All the girls he went after when *his* little girl wasn't in his *sights*," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

She *snarls* — "I want to kill him *again*!" 

"Good girl —" 

"I want — I want — I should've killed him *years* ago!" 

"Easy —" 

"*No* —" 

"*Easy*," he says, and makes his eyes gleam. 

She inhales sharply and nods once, eyes hard and hands balled into fists. 

He nods back. "Where would you have been if you had killed him before you could take care of yourself on the streets, mm? What would have happened to you?" 

She winces hard. "People. People talk about... about good-looking children being snatched up off the street..." 

"And they are. Every *day*. There aren't so many choices for the children like that," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

She *looks* at him. 

"Mm?" 

"I guess I *don't* see you bringing too many whores home." 

Treville *coughs*. "I..." 

She raises *her* eyebrows. 

He grins, helplessly. "Beautiful daughter. I *assure* you: If someone had tried to sell you to me? I would've paid in a heartbeat, thrown you over the back of my horse — you like her, so it would've been fine — and brought you home *immediately*." 

Her jaw drops — 

She stares at him — 

"To do bloody *what*!" 

"Plan methods to escape while I tried to convince you I was a reasonably pleasant man —" 

She swats him. 

"I — unreasonably?" 

"You're a *good* man! A *wonderful* man! A —" She growls and swats him again. 

"Punching might get your point across better —" 

"I don't *want* to punch you! I want... I want..." 

"Mm?" And Treville catches her hands and kisses the palms. 

"I want you to hold me. And talk to me. About — about everything. And — all the things you do." 

Treville smiles helplessly. "My girl. Let's get under the covers." 

"You're still *hard* —" 

"And that can wait — until I toss myself off, if necessary." 

"But —" 

"Shh," Treville says. "I promise it's all right," he says, and makes a point of *gripping* her soul just a little.

Making her feel him. 

She shivers and presses close immediately.


	12. You've got to make those orders more specific, Treville.

Treville dreams about Porthos fucking the living *hell* out of Aramis's arse while Athos uses Aramis's mouth positively *brutally*. 

He's had that fantasy before — he's a *dog* — but it's never been so vivid, so rich with the scents of sweat and slick and musk and *spend*, so — 

Real. 

And that's when Treville realizes that he's *awake*, and *looking through Porthos's eyes*, and Porthos is *knotting* Aramis — 

Shit — 

Porthos's *teeth* are shifting — 

*Shit* — 

Porthos is snarling and *pounding* Aramis — who looks and sounds downright blissful about it — but *Athos* has an excellent view of Porthos — 

"I — I — brother?" 

"Nnh — 'm — 'm *shifting* — oh, fuck, Aramis just *clenched* — I — I can't — " 

Treville *reaches* for Porthos — 

*Grips* his spirit — 

(Daddy!) 

I've got you, son. You won't shift any farther. 

(What the — why am I shifting *now*?) 

Because you feel *extremely* strongly about your brothers, and — how the hell did this happen?

(You *told* us to spend our holiday degenerately!) 

I... that I did. Hm. Carry on. 

(*Daddy*!) 

I'm going to have to keep you on this lead until after you've spent and gotten some of your control back, son. And — in fact, *cover* Aramis — 

(Oh, fuck, I *want* to —) 

Bite him and break the *skin* — 

(Shit shit shit —) 

*Bind* him — and Athos, too. That will help. 

(Fuuuck —) And Porthos covers Aramis immediately, wrapping his powerful arms around Aramis's chest — 

"Oh, yes!" 

"Brother, what —" 

"Treville. Put a *lead* on me. And gave me helpful advice," Porthos says, and starts to *rut* again, fast and hard and — 

"*What* advice?" 

"I — I — I have to *bind* you both, I need it, I need your blood, *please* say yes —" 

"Oh, Porthos, oh, my Porthos, please *bind* me!" And Aramis sounds wild, *lost* — 

Athos, who has somehow managed to *remove* his cock from that mouth, looks dangerously thoughtful — 

But Porthos is biting Aramis's shoulder — 

Aramis is wailing and spending all over the *sheets* — 

"Oh," Athos says, and flushes deeply. "Oh, I..." He starts stroking his own cock *violently* — 

Porthos licks the wound on Aramis's shoulder closed and then throws his head back and *howls* — 

"*Please*," Athos says — 

Aramis reaches one shaking hand for him, gripping his hard cock and urging it back toward his mouth — 

Porthos howls *again* — and Treville can *feel* him spending, feel him spurting right up Aramis's beautiful arse again and again, filling him *properly* — 

Oh, *fuck* — 

And Athos's hands are in Aramis's hair — 

Aramis is fucking his own *face* on Athos's cock — 

Porthos whimpers and whines like a *pup* — 

Treville's cock *spasms* — 

And spasms *again* when Porthos *snarls*, animal and low, and yanks one of Athos's arms to his mouth — 

Bites — 

"HNH — *brother* — my — my *brothers*!" 

Aramis and Porthos suck at the same time — 

Athos goes *rigid* — 

Sobs — 

And spills in Aramis's mouth even as Porthos licks the wounds closed. 

That... 

Treville stares at the ceiling and breathes. 

(You were right, Daddy. I *do* feel better now.) 

I'M BLOODY THRILLED TO HEAR IT.

Porthos snickers inside and out of their shared souls. 

Their extremely *crowded* souls, and, really, it's only a matter of time... he peers down at the wash of chestnut hair on his chest. 

Constance isn't asleep, but she hasn't said anything, yet... 

"I'm bloody *pretending* I'm asleep until the magic happens!" 

Treville coughs — 

Checks — 

His arsehole of a son is wheezing. 

Aramis still looks blissful. 

Athos seems to be trying to hide his genitals despite the fact that his cock is still in Aramis's mouth. 

Porthos makes a sound like a donkey being buggered by a palace. 

Constance punches him. 

"Ow —" 

"You deserved that, sir," Porthos says, speaking aloud now that they're all bound and can hear the thoughts as they happen well enough. There's a doubling when he uses the word 'sir' instead of 'Daddy', as though it's not the word he truly means, and Treville can only be warmed by that. "We all pictured that as vividly as *you* did." 

"*You* deserved that —"

"Did *I* deserve it, Daddy?" And Constance pushes up on her hands on Treville's chest and glares at him. 

"Absolutely not, daughter; I apologize; you're right about everything you've ever said; please put your breasts back on my chest." 

She splutters and swats him — 

Treville grins and strokes her cheek. "One moment, though," he says, and turns his attention back to Porthos, who is snickering again, damn him. "*Please* don't try to fuck either one of your brothers again until you've had some *training*." 

"That is a truly heartbreaking sentence, my Captain," Aramis says, speaking aloud, as well.

Treville snorts. "You won't be *up* to much for a while. I can *feel* how big that knot is." 

Aramis sighs and goes back to looking blissful. 

"Ah..." 

"Yes, Athos? Ah, no. He can do *anything else*. Just don't tempt him toward mounting either of you. And that means keep things... lighter. If there are dominance games, play them *loosely*." 

"Understood, sir." 

Aramis makes a mournful noise. 

Treville snorts. "Aramis. The better you behave during this difficult time? The more I'll talk to you about *religion*." 

Aramis beams. "*Yes*, sir!" 

"Good boys. Now, Porthos, is there anything else *you* need?" 

"Well, I'm buried knot-deep in Aramis, I can smell Athos's spend leaking out of Aramis's mouth, and I can smell my little sister's cunny *all over your face*." 

Treville coughs — 

Constance *gurgles* — 

"I'd say I'm pretty good. *Daddy*." 

"Right you are. *Do* feel free to call on me should you need further assistance," Treville says, and flourishes. 

"Absolutely, sir. Until later." And then there's a pause. 

"You have no idea how to dim this connection, do you." 

"No, and also you're an arse." 

"That I am. Here," Treville says, and deliberately *grips* the connection between him and Porthos before pulling back from it slowly, showing his boy how. 

"Oh — *got* it," Porthos says, and pulls back a little shakily, but well. 

And then he and Constance have their privacy again. 

To a certain extent. 

She smiles at him wryly. 

He strokes her hair. "Honestly, daughter. I thought that if they hadn't jumped into bed with each other before now, that it would take some sort of dramatic life event to do it." 

"Like one of them being told that the Captain was his witch-father, and also that *he* was a witch, and a shifter, and also that his mother was involved with *five other people*?" 

Treville opens his mouth — 

Closes it —

"Right you are. How are you?" 

She raises her eyebrows high. "Is that how it *works*?" 

"'It'?" 

"Buggery!" 

"Ah. Well... when the parties involved are extremely lucky?" 

"But..." 

"Mm?" 

"You were pretty sure that that was their *first* time." 

"Yes?" 

"But there were *three* of them there!" 

"Oh, that." 

"Yes, *that*. I — I know you and your lovers often made love with more than two people at once, but — the *first* time?" 

"Does it seem less special, daughter?" 

"Well... yes? I mean, wouldn't it have to be?" 

"It *can* be less special, daughter, but it doesn't *have* to be. When the, say, three people love each other madly, and want the best for each other, and want each other to *have* the best, and want to *see* each other have the best...?" And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

Constance nods slowly and thoughtfully... and then smiles down at him.

"What would my lovely daughter like to do?" 

"Play with your cock!" 

"*Play* with it, mm?" And he deliberately takes her hands in his own and holds them a little firmly. "What sorts of games are we talking about...?" 

She looks at where he has her hands trapped — 

Flushes — 

And grins. "The kind that let me know what your cock *likes*." 

Treville nods mock-judiciously. "Those are fair sorts of games, daughter —" 

"Oh — *let* me!" 

Treville grins wide and releases her, sitting up on his elbows. "Have at. *Please*." 

She scoots down his body immediately — 

Pauses to *press* her cunt against his cock — 

To ride it a little — 

"Oh — daughter," Treville says, and licks his lips. "Did you change your mind?" 

"M-maybe?" 

Treville flexes his cock helpfully — 

"*Unh* — wait — wait —" 

"Yes...?" 

"I just —" And Constance grinds *down*, just like he'd taught her — 

Treville growls — 

"Fuck — your growls are so — so —" 

"So...?" And Treville is panting as Constance grinds — 

As Constance *stares* and grinds, increasingly glassy-eyed — 

Treville growls low, *mostly* to test — 

"HNH —" And Constance grunts and *bucks* — 

Bounces on his *knot* — 

*Treville* bucks —

Constance grinds harder —

"Oh, daughter, you're so beautiful, you're so —" Treville growls and *fucks* up against her — 

"*Yes*! Yes, Daddy!" 

"My *girl*," Treville says, and fucks against her softness, through her *folds* — 

She whimpers and tries and tries to catch his rhythm — 

She's trying to *grind* and thrust, but she keeps being distracted by her *pleasure* — 

"D-Daddy...." And she *grips* his shoulders — 

Digs her nails in *hard* — 

"Daddy, *please* —" 

"Oh, daughter — daughter, is it good? Or do you need your Daddy to take a little control?" 

She groans and *shakes* — 

Bucks twice — 

"Please — please hold my — my *hips*," she says, and flips her sweat-lank hair out of her face — 

Stares into him with her wide, beautiful eyes — 

*Pleads* into him — 

Treville growls and drops backs down onto his back — 

She cries out as he *jostles* her — 

He grips her *hips* and holds her *still* for his thrusts —

"NNGH — fuck — *fuck*!" 

"Oh, daughter —" 

"More — more to the — please let me move!" 

Treville grunts and eases his grip — 

He *can't* stop thrusting — 

She moves *slightly* to the left — 

Caws — 

Claws down over his *nipples* — 

Treville arches and grips her *tight* — 

"Yes! Yes, now!" 

"Right you *are*, daughter," he says, and thrusts right there, grinds right there, takes her softness, her sweetness, the slick *rush* of her *body* — 

She sobs and claws him over and *over* again, hot trails of fire that make Treville want to thrust harder, faster — 

Just — 

"Do it! *Do* it, Daddy!" 

"*Daughter*, I —" But he's already fucking between her folds harder, so much *harder* — 

"I know you want to be *inside* me!" 

"It can *wait*," he snarls, and has her this way, has her so *hard* — 

She sobs, she shivers like a horse — 

Her hair is hanging in her face as she *grinds* — 

She's *groaning* — 

"Claw me again, daughter, touch me, look at me, show me — show me your beautiful *face*." And Treville knows he sounds exactly as desperate as he *is*, but he needs this, needs every *second* — 

She looks up at him, eyes wide and lips parted — 

Treville *bucks* — 

She makes a *soft* sound and kneels *up* — 

"Daughter — is it — are you —" 

And then she *grips* his cock *hard* — 

Treville growls — 

She's *dripping* on him — 

She — 

"I need you," she says, *quietly*, and guides him *in* — 

"*Daughter* —" 

"Don't — don't *stop* me!" 

"You have to let me *prepare* —" 

"LET ME!" 

Treville sits up on his elbows and pants and pants and — 

Fuck, she's still *dripping* on — 

He gives himself a shake. "Daughter. This will *hurt* you." 

She pauses, and makes another small noise. "Even if you're careful?"

He's sweating like a pig, his cock is jerking in her *hand*, and he can't make her *scared* — no. No. Only absolute honesty for his best girl. He takes a deep breath — 

Gives himself another shake —

And then he looks her in the eye. "I'm *big*, daughter —" 

"I *noticed* —" 

"Once more than the tip is inside you? It will grow increasingly difficult to keep myself — and my dog — from trying to get the *rest* in there —" 

"I *want* it!" 

"*You* are small, daughter." 

"I —" 

"You haven't had any lovers. You haven't had any *toys*." 

"What — what do you mean?" 

"*Sex* toys, daughter. Toys to *stretch* a *naturally* tight channel. Do you fuck yourself?" 

"I — I play with myself —" 

"With your pleasure-button, your lips. Do you *push in*." 

She blushes *hard* —

And the arsehole pops up in their minds, drunk and weaving, ranting *incoherently* about how Constance's virginity is the only valuable thing about her — 

Treville tugs her away from the memory, tugs her back and back until it's vague, until it's *dim* — 

And then he's gone altogether, and Constance is releasing his cock and covering her lovely face with her sticky hands. 

"Oh, no, no, daughter," Treville says, and pulls her in against him — 

She doesn't uncover her face right away, and her mind and soul are full of shame and self-hatred. 

Treville snorts air out of his nose and holds her tighter, licks her, kisses her, *holds* her — "Daughter, don't beat yourself up for this. You've done *nothing* wrong." 

"I can't — I can't give you what you want!" 

"You've been giving me what I want all *night*," he says, and *grips* her soul — 

Makes her *feel* him — 

She *grunts* — "Daddy —" 

"You *are* what I want, daughter. And we have *time* for all those other things. You mustn't think I need everything right *now*." 

"But you *want* it." 

"I'm a greedy man, *and* I'm a dog. Daughter, if it were up to me, we wouldn't leave this bed for anything but the most *dire* emergencies for a *month*. That, I think, would give me time to get a good, solid *start* on everything I want to teach you about lovemaking." 

"I." 

"But that's just it, daughter — I want to take my *time*," he says, and pulls back just far enough to meet her eyes. "I want to go a little slowly with you." 

She nods thoughtfully. 

"All right?" 

"Did you go slowly with — with your boys?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Not often. But —" 

Constance frowns and hangs her head — 

"Oh, daughter, no," he says, and tilts her head back up. 

Her eyes are dark and hollow. 

"Two things, daughter." 

She nods. 

"One, some things I *had* to go slowly for, like preparing small holes for my cock. And two? I think we can agree that a girl who wants to play around with sex and having lovers will be punished for it a *lot* more harshly, generally, than a boy who wants the same." And he raises his eyebrows. 

She blinks — 

She frowns — 

She *scowls* — 

He strokes her sticky cheek —

"I never thought about it that way before!" 

"I know you —" 

"That's not bloody *fair*!" 

"No, it —" 

"None of this is bloody *fair*!" 

"You're absolutely —" 

"Shut it!" 

He shuts it. 

She sits back on her heels and crosses her arms under her beautiful breasts. 

He damned well ignores his cock and waits her out. 

And, after a long moment, she stops scowling into the distance, and a little smile forms at the corner of her mouth. "You're — you're just a *ridiculously* good man, aren't you." 

"Daughter, I'm just not a *pillock* —" 

"No. I mean it. There *aren't* men like you out there, are there. Not really." 

"Porthos and his brothers —" 

"Other than them?" 

"I — Jason." 

She nods slowly again. "So it's not — hopeless?" 

"No, daughter. There are good men out there. A lot of them need the occasional crack upside the head to help them learn a few important life lessons about the world, people, and women in particular, but you'll be able to dish those cracks *out*." 

"And. If I want a man who's already learned everything?" And she looks deep into his eyes — 

Her eyes are so wide and hungry and *full* — 

"If I want a man who won't need to be lectured just to know basic things?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I don't know if there *are* men like *that*, daughter —" 

"*You* know, Daddy. You know *everything* —" 

"Daughter —" 

"The closest you come to *not* knowing something is when you *forget* something — and then you let people *remind* you!" 

"Of course I do, but —" 

"Do you not want me, Daddy?" 

And that.

That wasn't a dare, or a game, or a challenge, or — anything but an honest, open question from a young woman who's been through too much — 

And who's maybe been through too much tonight. "Daughter, I want you —" Treville growls. "You *are* my daughter, but that doesn't change anything about the fact that I want you to share my bed every night."

She gasps — and flushes. "Every...?" 

"Please. I want this to be *our* bed." 

Her eyes are brighter, *fiercer* — 

"Oh, daughter," he says, and leans in — 

She stops him with a hand on his mouth.

"Mm?" He pulls back. "I apologize. Tell me, ask me —" 

"No, I... I want to know what happens... what happens when I'm... ripe," she says, and blushes under her flush.

Treville flushes, too. "Well..." 

She raises her eyebrows. 

"We're going to be pressured a *bit* by the All-Mother, but I'll be able to reason with her —" 

"Daddy." 

"Mm?" 

"Do you *want* me to have your children." And she looks at him hard, so *hard* — 

So hard and *hungry* — 

So. 

And he can only be honest. "Yes, daughter. I do. *When you're older*." 

She inhales sharply. "When... when will I be... ripe?" 

"A week from now, and about a month after that, *every* month after that." 

"*Really*?" 

Treville grins. "Why do you think there are so many humans, hmm?" 

"But — I never had any brothers or sisters..." And she frowns. 

Treville tugs her away from that thought — 

"Oh — *Daddy*! I wasn't thinking about —" 

"You were about to, in pretty terrible ways." 

"But — oh. Um. Tug me — again —" 

Treville nods *while* doing so. 

She shudders and pushes close again — 

He holds her. Just holds her. 

"Rock me?" 

"Right you are," he says, and does just that — 

She holds him tighter, sighing and kissing the join of his throat and shoulder. 

"Please feel free to do that all the time —" 

She laughs quietly and *nuzzles* him there — 

"And that —" 

She *growls* — 

Treville's idiot cock *jerks* — 

She *grunts* — 

"I'm —"

"Um." 

"Daughter? Are you all —" 

"I'm all right. I... I have a question. Another... well, I always have questions," she says, and laughs nervously. 

"Mm? What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's *wrong*, but. I was thinking." 

He strokes her hair, and her back. "Tell me, please." 

"Porthos's brothers are buggerers, Daddy..." 

"Yes, but —" 

"One of them could marry me for, um, show? And move in. And it wouldn't be *weird* for me to suddenly start having babies." 

Treville *stares*. 

"No?" 

Treville snaps *out* of it — "You're the best daughter any man could *ever* have, first of all, and your tactical mind is flowering beautifully —" 

"*But*?" 

"Ah — both Athos and Aramis love women, as well. Athos was married once." 

"Oh." She pulls back and frowns. "How *will* we do it, then?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I don't know, yet, daughter —" 

"Do you think Athos and Aramis would mind me *asking*?" 

Treville *coughs* — 

"Was that a yes?" 

"It was a 'I have never in my life imagined that question before', daughter —" 

"Imagine it now!" 

"Right you are — I... hm." 

"Yes?" 

"Athos would probably be tempted to flee, but first, reflexively, he would lecture you on the impropriety — you'd have to point out that he doesn't care about that, *either*, at which point he'd be tempted to flee again, but first he'd start *thinking* about it. What he'd come up with is utterly beyond me." 

"Damn!" 

"Aramis will always, *always* sacrifice himself for what he feels to be the greater good, so you would have to be careful to make it clear that this was something you *wanted*, and not something you *needed* —" 

"But I *do* need it!" 

Treville *grunts* — 

"Don't you, Daddy?" 

He growls *helplessly* — shit. "Daughter — don't. I need us to table this conversation." 

She blinks and stares at him. "Daddy?" 

"I'll lose too much of the control we both need me to have if we keep talking about this right now." 

She looks down between them at Treville's still-hard cock — 

She licks her lips —

And she pulls back against his grip on her. 

He releases her with an *effort* —

But she only scoots back a little distance. Just far enough to get her hands between them, to — pet his chest, the places she's scratched him, the fur on his belly — "There's much more here now. Fur, I mean." 

"I — it happens when I lose control, some. The dog comes out more." 

She licks her lips. "And this is what the dog's fur is like?" 

"It's slightly darker in color, other people have said it's softer, a little oilier. I'll show you." 

"Now?" 

Treville rolls his head on his neck — "No, daughter. The dog is *exceedingly* well-behaved, but he's still a dog. We're too randy to let him out just now." 

She blushes *hard* — "I — all right!" 

"I love you. I love you with all of myself. I want you to be *happy* —" 

"I'm happy with *you*!" 

Treville *growls* — 

Strains — 

"Oh, *Daddy* — please tell me what to *do* for you —" 

"You don't *have* to —" 

She smacks him. *Hard*. 

Treville grunts helplessly while rotating his jaw a bit — 

A *bit* — 

"Let me try again." 

She blazes at him — 

Treville licks his slick off her cheek — 

"Oh — *Daddy* —" 

"Touch me," he says, into her ear. "Touch my *knot*." 

*She* grunts — and immediately wraps one hand around it. "How — how should I —" 

"Squeeze it gently —" Treville barks as his cock spits slick all over both of them and the bed. 

"Ohh..." She squeezes him *again* — 

Treville *barks* again — and his cock spits more slick. 

She hums and swipes some out of his belly-fur, then licks it *right* up. 

"Oh, daughter... do you like it?" 

She nods and wipes the slick all over her *mouth* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Tell me — tell me more —" 

"Keep squeezing —" He barks *twice* — 

"Daddy — Daddy, *more* —" 

"Stroke. Stroke the shaft with your other hand, daughter — nnh —" Treville *growls* — 

Rolls his head on his neck — 

Pants and *grips* his beautiful daughter's face, licks and licks and licks — 

"Daddy — fuck —" 

"Your *hands* —" 

"Are they — are they good —" 

"Perfect. *Worked*. *Strong*." 

She makes a high, *sharp* noise and squeezes hard with *both* hands — 

Treville yips and bites her cheek — 

She gasps — and doesn't let go. 

"That's right, daughter. Stay. Stay right here." 

"Oh, Daddy... you're losing control..." 

"I won't hurt you. I won't ever *hurt* you." 

She growls — "No, you *won't*," she says, and starts stroking again — 

He throws his head back — 

He pants — 

He *pants* — 

"Daddy, look at me!" 

He *drops* his head and *shoves* his hands into her hair — "You're *beautiful*!" 

"I need you, Daddy —" 

"You're *mine*!" 

She squeezes him again — 

He *howls* in her *face* — 

Her jaw *drops* — and then she starts to lick him, to kiss him, to nibble at his lips — 

No — 

He didn't warn — 

He *chokes* on his howl — 

Snarls and bites her throat *hard* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

MINE!

She squeezes and strokes faster, *faster* — 

Yes, daughter, *yes* — 

"More! Teach me more!" 

Use your — use your thumb on the head! 

"How — I — no," she says, and *works* the tip of Treville's cock with her thumb — 

So callused from *sewing* — 

Treville growls into her throat — 

She groans — 

And he reaches down between them, down and down between her legs — 

She *gasps* — 

Teach *me*. 

"D-Daddy —" 

He bites her *harder* — 

She screams and *bucks* onto his hand — 

Good girl. Teach me what to do where you're soft and *wet*. 

Her hands *shake* on his cock — 

She *loosens* her grip — 

Hold me *tight*, daughter! 

"HNH —" And she obeys immediately — 

Treville barks into her *throat* — 

"Daddy — Daddy, touch my — my *button*!" 

He does just that, rubbing gently with his rougher calluses — 

She cries out — 

She *whimpers* — 

She starts to *ride* his hand, and *her* hands are shaking again — 

Keep — keep *stroking* — 

"Yes, Daddy, yes — press harder!" 

*Yes*, he says, and obeys his perfect daughter, rubs in the opposite rhythm to her bucking, rocking thrusts — 

She *growls* a scream — 

Squeezes with both hands and strokes him *violently* — 

He licks a long stripe to her mouth — 

Bites her lips, lower then upper — 

"UNGH —" 

"Good *girl*!" 

"Daddy! Please don't stop!" 

"I *won't*. And —" He growls low, letting his eyes gleam as much as they want to. "You're going to make me spend soon, daughter —" 

"Oh — God — yes, please!" 

"Will you taste it? Mm?" 

"Yes, Daddy, please —" 

"Will you let me taste it in your perfect *mouth*." 

"NNH — Daddy — *Daddy* —" And she leans in to kiss him, to lick him more — 

"Don't bite." 

"Mm? Why —" 

"I'll bite you back. I won't be able to — to stop myself —" 

Her gaze turns heavy and — and even *hotter* — 

"Daughter —" 

And she bites his *jaw* — 

Right through the *beard* — 

Treville *snarls* and *yanks* her head back by the hand he still has in her hair — 

Bites her all over *face* — 

"*Yes*!" 

Bites her mouth over and *over* again — 

"Please — mm — *MM* —" 

She's left his hand slick and *sopping* — 

She — 

She's never stopped *stroking* — 

And he bites the front of her throat, bites it hard, cuts off her *air* — 

She gasps and gets *nothing* — 

She tries to gasp several more times, and every time she fails, she *bucks* — 

Good *girl*...

She squeezes him *viciously* — 

He *rumbles* into her throat — 

(I — I feel that in my *spine*!)

Just wait until I mount you one day, daughter...

Her entire *self* is shocked for that — 

Treville laughs low and hungry, fills her mind with images of him covering her, filling her, wrapping her chest tight in his arms and biting the back of her neck — 

Holding her steady for his knot — 

Holding her steady for his *spend* — and one day she'll be ripe for it, ready, ready to make a child with him, ready for *everything* — 

She cries out inside them — 

And on that day, daughter... you will *still* be my beloved little girl, he says, and presses just that little bit harder — 

She *screams* inside them — 

Rides his hand fast and *hard* — 

Wets him down so — 

Oh, daughter, *yes* — 

(Nnh — *NNH* — *please*!)

And Treville breaks the bite and pulls back — "Daughter? What —" 

And then Constance's mouth is *on* his cock, she — 

She takes in the tip and just a little more — 

She hums and moans and *sucks* — 

*Treville's* hand is shaking in her hair — 

His other hand is — 

Is — 

He growls and shoves it in his mouth, sucking and slurping up her juices and keeping himself *still*, just — 

His *cock* is jerking and spasming and spitting slick all over his beautiful daughter's *mouth*, but he doesn't have to thrust. 

He doesn't have to thrust. 

He doesn't — 

He pushes, just a little — 

"Mm!" 

Treville groans around his own fingers and pulls *back* — 

She sucks *hard* — 

Treville's cock *jerks* — 

She takes *more* — 

Treville's cock jerks again — 

*Again* — 

He *pushes* — 

"Mm — *mmgh* —" 

He pulls *back* — 

She *stops* him with her *grip* — 

He *barks* a howl — 

Her mouth drops open and slick and drool drip to the bed — 

He yanks his hand out of his mouth — "Please close your mouth and *suck*," he says, and that was more of an order than any kind of request — 

She does it — 

He *grips* her hair — 

She bucks at *nothing* — 

She sucks *harder* — 

(Tell me *how*!) 

"Fuck — fuck your own *face*, daughter. —" 

(Oh — *oh* —) And she immediately tries to do it fast and hard, fast and *deep* — 

She coughs — 

She *growls* around him — 

He *spasms* — 

She *slurps* — 

"HNH —" 

She sucks *hard* again and starts fucking herself at a more — more moderate — 

Ah, fuck — 

Ah, *fuck* — 

He's rolling his head on his neck and shaking, shuddering — 

Needing just *this*, but also — 

She squeezes his *knot* again — 

*Jerks* when his cock spits slick all over her mouth, her hot mouth, her beautiful *mouth* — 

"*Daughter* — daughter, I love — please — *please* —" 

She nods and keeps going, keeps taking him, keeps *having* him — 

She's getting *hot* again — 

She *likes* — 

"Oh, *daughter* —" 

(Is fucking this good?) 

"NNH — *better*, so much — oh, daughter, I'll show you, I'll *show* you —" 

(*Yes*, Daddy,) she says, and speeds *up* — 

So *much* — 

She has her rhythm now, her grace, her natural *grace* — 

Treville's sweating and aching and — 

And he can't stop thinking about fucking her.

Her mouth — 

Her sweet, round, downy arse — 

Her soft and pink and *wet* cunt, needy cunt, *hungry* cunt — 

She groans around him — 

His cock spasms *again* — 

She looks up into his *eyes* — 

He cups her face with his other hand, he — 

He can't *stop* himself from rubbing at her stretched-wide mouth, her lips — 

"*Beautiful*. I *love* you — I'll always — always keep you close — my *daughter* —" 

She smiles around him and closes her *eyes* — 

He grunts and *fights* the urge to buck, to slam, to *take* —

And then she squeezes his *knot* again, and he's snarling, fucking in, *in*, just shallowly, just a little *shallowly* — 

She's groaning around him and *nodding* — 

"Daughter — *fuck* — I —" 

She wraps her other hand around his *bollocks* and squeezes — 

His vision blanks — 

He howls *desperately* — 

He can't *tell* how deeply he's thrusting — 

He can't — 

He can't *stop* — 

He's spurting all over her *mouth* — 

He can't *stop* — but she coughs and tugs against his *grip*, and he *can* stop, can — 

He can let go, spurt on her chest — 

She whoops in a gasp and coughs again — 

There's spend striping her right nipple and he spurts *again* — 

"Oh, *Daddy*!" 

He cups her face and growls something even *he* can't translate, but he needs a kiss, he needs it right — 

Right now.

She throws her arms around his neck and gives herself to him so openly, so *freely* — 

Treville rumbles and rumbles — 

Lifts her into his arms — 

"Oh!" 

He lays them both down, rolls them until she's sprawled over him again — and then takes more kisses. 

Just — a few more. 

A few — several more. 

She giggles into his mouth. 

He grins. "Mm?" 

"Was that even *good*?" 

"*Yes*. You did exactly what I wanted you to do. There are other things I like at different times, but this —" 

"You *wanted* to fuck my mouth." 

"I..." 

Constance looks at him. 

Treville smiles wryly. "All right, you've got me there. "*Most* of the time when there's a mouth on my cock? I'm fucking it. But there was no time to get you accustomed to that —" 

She glares. 

"And we're going to work on that. I'm going to work on that. My timing. And your training. My — your — we're going to do better."

She nods once. And then giggles more. 

Treville strokes her face. "Share the joke?" 

"You're so busy protecting me from everything that you wouldn't even have spent at *all* tonight if I hadn't demanded it!" 

"I *might* have had you watch me toss myself off." 

"Oh..." 

"Yes? That sounds attractive?" 

"Do *you* like that?" 

"I do indeed, daughter. You might have suggestions about what I should *do* with my tackle." 

She blinks — 

Licks her lips — 

Rolls off his chest to the side so she can *look* at his cock — 

It jerks for her obligingly — 

She snorts. 

He flourishes — 

"Oh — but..." 

"Mm?" 

"You're still hard, and your knot's still so... huge," she says, and frowns. 

"It will be for a while, yet. The dog in me — both the real one and the one that *I* am — would've preferred we knot you tonight." 

"Oh." 

"Not to worry, daughter," Treville says, and folds his arms behind his head. "I'm just randy, not suffering. I probably *will* toss myself off later, and —" 

"Or now?" And she *looks* at him. 

Treville hums. 

*Un*folds his arms. 

Cracks his knuckles — "Suggestions, daughter...?" 

She beams at him and snuggles in close.


	13. Alive.

His beautiful daughter wakes with him before dawn, puffy-eyed and scaly-faced and tangle-haired and utterly disreputable. 

It's a glorious sight. 

Sadly, she doesn't let him lick, pet, grope, snuggle, or even sniff her from up close once they *are* awake — that dressing gown goes on at record speed — 

And then she makes an attempt to neaten her hair — 

And then she stands in front of his mirror to make *another* attempt — 

And then she squawks, runs to the basin on the hearth, scrubs her face as if there's something much worse on her cheek and chin than dried spend and slick — 

Treville does *not* laugh — much — 

"*Your* beard is sticking up in all *directions*," she says, or possibly something about missed connections. It's muffled with all the scrubbing. 

"It also smells *fantastic*," he says.

She drops the linen. "*Your* spend doesn't smell as good now as it did last night!" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Men's spend is like that — for humans." 

"But not for you?" 

Treville flares his nostrils. "I enjoy the complexities it gains, at times." 

She nods slowly, very clearly tucking that away. "I... wish I could keep my clothes in here, Daddy." 

Treville's heart hurts in all the best ways. "I wish the same, daughter." 

She nods and bites her lip — and then moves close again. 

He pulls her into his arms and hugs her tight. 

"I might have wanted a kiss, you know." 

Treville hums. "Did you?" 

She sticks her tongue out. "Not until you wash *some* of me out of your beard and *tame* the thing." 

"I had my suspicions about that..." 

She beams and pecks him. "I'll see you at breakfast, Daddy." 

He pecks her right back. "Right you are." 

He washes himself slowly and thoroughly everywhere but his face, which he washes slowly and terribly. 

There was a time when he had a lot of practice at keeping a roughly even amount of cunt-scent throughout his beard while still managing to make himself *look* like a respectable individual, but, well, it's been a while. 

He wouldn't want to do this *wrong*. 

He pulls out the little silver comb and scissors to trim himself down a bit when he's done washing himself down and drying off, and then he damned well dresses himself like the Captain of the King's Musketeers, only luckier, happier, *better*. 

When he's done, he reads his beautiful daughter's carefully, shakily, beautifully written note a few dozen more times. 

When he's done with that, he wipes his tears away and moves into his sitting room, and finds *three* place settings, and a terrifyingly bland Alaire. 

He blinks — 

*Recovers* — 

"Who's our guest this morning, Alaire?" 

Alaire gives him a *look*. 

Treville has not recovered enough for that. "I..." 

"Your *son* has decided to pay us a visit, sir." 

"Oh. I. I meant to mention —" 

"That you had *finally* informed him of his past and had welcomed him into our lives, sir...?" 

Treville licks his lips — 

Considers tugging at his collar — no, no. 

"Yes, that's precisely it, Alaire. You always cut to the heart of the matter." 

Alaire's scar-tissue twitches violently. 

For several *long* moments. 

And then he nods. "I will send him up immediately. Unless...?" And that 'unless' sounds *exactly* like 'unless you plan to make my life unnecessarily difficult in some *other* way'. 

"No, that would be — that would be entirely — do that," Treville says, and nods. 

Alaire continues to look at him. 

The look is making sweat *boil* out of Treville's body — wait. Treville pulls his backbone back into shape, remembers that he's theoretically Alaire's *employer* — "Dismissed." 

Alaire nods, turns sharply, and departs. 

Treville would swear the man was smiling as he went. 

He'd also swear that Alaire wouldn't admit to that under *any* amount of torture. 

Treville smiles ruefully and waits for — his children. 

His *children*. 

His — 

He has more than one!

Amina-love, I — 

Oh, Dad, you would've — 

He turns away from the door to wipe the tears away, and, of course, that's exactly when Porthos walks in. 

"Oi — sir, are you *all right*?" And Porthos is *right* there, hand on Treville's shoulder — 

Sniffing — 

"Oh... those were... happy tears?" 

"That they were, son," Treville says, and turns to face his boy. To reach up and cup his handsome face — "Thank you for this." 

Porthos blushes and ducks his head — but only for a moment. "You *said* you wanted me here, sir. It's not like I'm going to say no to that." 

Treville frowns. "I don't want you to feel pressured into anything —" 

"I *don't*. Don't *worry*," Porthos says, and grins that incredible grin. "So where's my little sister, eh? Other than — again — *all over your face*." 

Treville coughs — 

"Good job neatening your beard even with all those scents and such still there —" 

"Well," Treville says. "I've had a fair amount of practice." And he just leaves that there. 

"With — *shit*, you're talking about my *mum* —" Porthos smacks him *hard* — 

Treville laughs *harder*. "To be fair, son —" 

"*No*. *No*." 

"I'm also talking —" 

Porthos smacks him again — 

"About *Athos's* mother —" 

"Bloody *hell*!" 

"Oh — what did he *say*?" And Constance is in the doorway in her most *cheerful* practical dress — and the brooch, and red velvet ribbons for her hair — with her fists on her hips and a scowl on her perfect face. 

Porthos grins at *her* — and bows deeply, making a leg. "Good morning, little sister. I'm Porthos. Our *arsehole* of a father was making me think about all the sex he used to have with my mum — and my brother Athos's mum." 

Her jaw drops — but only for a moment. "*Daddy*! And — oh. I'm Constance," she says with an almost-shy smile for Porthos. 

Treville snickers just a little more and moves back to the table. "It's not my fault, daughter. He was complimenting me on the job I'd done on keeping your *musk* on and about me —" 

She *squawks* — 

"I had to mention how I'd *learned* how to do that," he says, and pulls on an innocent expression. 

Constance glares at both of them. 

Porthos wilts a bit. 

And then Constance grins and strides into the room proper, letting Treville pull out her chair and sitting at the table. "Honestly, do men ever talk about anything *other* than sex?" 

Treville and Porthos share a look while seating themselves — 

"Guns," Porthos says. 

"Hunting," Treville says. 

"Horses. Horses are always good, sir." 

"They often tie in with the guns and the hunting, though." 

"Oh, yeah, true, true. And the sex, if we get the conversations going just right," Porthos says, and pulls on his dimmest expression. 

Treville mirrors him. 

Constance snorts *hard*. "Right, I asked for that." 

"That you did, oh dearest daughter of mine who has had just a *few* questions about sex herself." 

She blushes and grins again. "I like the way you answered them, Daddy." 

Treville grins and pours tea for his darling girl. "Anytime, anywhere, daughter." 

"Really." 

Oh. 

Porthos laughs hard. "I think you just stepped in it, sir." 

Treville colours *just* a bit — and pours tea for his wonderful son. "Well, if I did?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm going to enjoy every *second* of it." 

And Porthos eyes him speculatively, thinking of calling him Daddy again — 

And Constance eyes him with hot, sharp *thrill*, thinking of *touching* him again — 

And Treville is alive in every part of himself. 

He rings the bell for breakfast. 

end.


End file.
